



Produced by Beth Baran and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)








                                  THE

                          PASTOR'S FIRE-SIDE,

                               VOL. II.



     Printed by A. Strahan,
  New-Street-Square, London.




                                  THE

                          PASTOR'S FIRE-SIDE,

                                   A

                             _NOVEL_,

                           IN FOUR VOLUMES.


                                  BY
                           MISS JANE PORTER,

           AUTHOR OF THADDEUS OF WARSAW, SIDNEY'S APHORISMS,
                       AND THE SCOTTISH CHIEFS.


   I will confess the ambitious projects which I once had, are dead within
   me. After having seen the parts which fools play upon the great stage;
   a few books, and a few friends, are what I shall seek to finish my days
   with.

                                                              TWEDDELL.

                               VOL. II.

                                LONDON:
          PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,
                           PATERNOSTER-ROW.

                                 1817.




                                  THE
                          PASTOR'S FIRE-SIDE,
                               VOL. II.




CHAP. I.


Next morning's rayless sun found Louis passing from his hardly pressed
pillow, to the prosecution of his appointed task for the day. Ignatius
had laid before him new papers, of a totally different character from
the former, and much more difficult to transcribe.

As he continued to write, he heard the furious beating of a snow-storm
against the windows, which, in this apartment, were not only grated
but too high in the wall to allow of outward view. The heat of a
well-filled stove excluded the encreased cold of the season; and the
fierceness of the elements made him the less regret the exercise he
must relinquish, or lose all hope of reducing the immense piles before
him.

The Sieur appeared at his former nocturnal hour, to receive what had
been finished, and to leave other manuscripts to which he desired
duplicates. Day after day Louis was kept close to his desk, and every
night delivered to his unrelenting task-master the labour of the day.

At the expiration of a week, the Sieur told him he should not see
him again till the first of the ensuing month; but that he had a
correspondence to leave with him, which he must completely transcribe
into a regular series, by the time of his return. Louis received
his orders in respectful silence, and when he was again left to his
solitary toil, he found that his voluminous task was in the Sclavonian
and Turkish characters. Neither of these languages had been parts of
his studies; so he pursued his monotonous employment each succeeding
day, from morning until midnight, without the accession of one new
idea, or a moment's leisure for retrospection on former acquirements.

The sun rose, and the sun set; the weather, foul or fair; gloomy in
storm, or gay with the scintillation of exhilarating frost, all found
Louis de Montemar close at his desk. The iron-bound windows had never
opened to the air; and the charcoal fumes which warmed the apartment,
having no egress, hung in narcotic vapours on the vaulted roof. A heavy
languor fell on its lonely inhabitant, and grew on him from day to
day, till it left him hardly any other consciousness of being, than
the faculty of moving, his now habituated hand, perpetually over the
infinite reams of paper which lay before him.

On the night of the 1st of February, according to his promise, Ignatius
entered the prison-room of his unrelaxing secretary. The piles which
were completed, at last extorted from his unbending loftiness, an
exclamation of admiration at such faultless execution and indefatigable
perseverance. Louis's face no longer lighted up, as it was wont, at the
voice of praise; but he bowed, though in silence. Had Ignatius spared
a glance from the laborious heap to its unrepining artificer, that
face would have told the tale his tongue had not uttered. The bloomy
crimson of his cheek had perished under the withering breath of stoved
confinement; and his eyes, before so luminous in health, so bright in
youthful enjoyment, were sunk in languor under his darkening brows.
So thoroughly was the Sieur absorbed in the business of his visit, he
might not have observed these changes, had he not accidentally come in
contact with the hand of his pupil in taking one of the packets. He
started, as the touch seemed to scorch him.

"How is this?" cried he, eyeing Louis from head to foot, "you are ill."

"Perhaps the confinement, Sir," returned he, "may discompose me a
little. But custom will enure me to it, and meanwhile it is of no
consequence."

"No," said Ignatius, "your diligence has been too severe; you must have
air and exercise. To-morrow you shall try their efficacy. I will send a
respectable servant of my own, to attend you over the city."

Louis thankfully embraced the proposal.

The morrow's sun rose brilliant, as on the first morning he had hailed
its beams from his chamber at Vienna. Louis dismissed a breakfast, for
which he had no appetite; and with a spring of joy, he could not have
conceived it possible to have experienced by merely stepping forth into
the open air, he followed Martini, (the promised attendant from the
Sieur,) out of the great gates of the Chateau.

The man was an Italian, and possessed none of the taciturnity of
his mysterious master. With the respect due to a superior, but the
garrulous gaiety of his country, he freely remarked to his companion
on every object of sight, as he conducted him along the hoar-frosted
avenue to the extensive glacis before the fortified walls of Vienna.
Martini led the way through the Leopoldstadt-gate. Louis followed, but
paid no attention to street nor square, palace nor cathedral; he was
all occupied by the reviving aspirations he drew at every breath from
an atmosphere whose ethereal quality seemed to penetrate every pore,
and by an enchanting inebriation to restore him at once to his wonted
elasticity of spirits.

Martini conducted him through the finest squares of the city, and along
the most magnificent part of the suburbs towards the frozen Danube.
It was now the hour of high gala. The noise and bustle of a countless
multitude, passing and re-passing in a thousand different directions,
soon summoned the concentrated senses of Louis to regard outward
objects. The beams of the sun played over the landscape; hues of light
blue, intermingled with bloomy purple deepening into shade, checquered
the hills on the horizon. A waving line of shining snow marked the
heights of Calemberg, and a sky of the purest azure canopied the scene.
At the distance of his windows from the river, he could only view a
various and interminable mass of human beings moving on its surface;
but now he could distinguish the peculiar dress and aspect of each
individual of all the nations assembled on that universal theatre.
Turks, Tartars, Greeks, Muscovites, Swedes, and Italians, English and
French, all appeared as if travelling to some vast senate of mankind;
or rather, so gay were their habits, so gorgeous their equipages, it
might be taken for a pageantry in fairy-land.

Delighted to see the attention of his charge at last arouzed, Martini
allowed him, for some time, to gaze around in pleased amazement;
then, resuming his office of _Cicerone_ with augmented eloquence,
he particularized the objects most worthy observation, and explained
them with the accuracy of an itinerary. The Asiatic structure, raising
its gilded domes over the cedars of the island, and which Louis had
noticed from his window, Martini informed him was the _Favorita_; the
favorite palace of the imperial family. It was now their temporary
residence; and in that direction he saw numerous carriages, of strange
shapes and capricious magnificence, shoot along the ice. Fancy seemed
to have exhausted all her varieties of form in the construction of
these whimsical vehicles. Some were fashioned like triumphal cars,
others like the fabled shells of marine deities, and many of shapes
so fantastical and grotesque, that the incumbent seemed lying in the
grasp of some sea or land monster. All were garnished with gilding,
emblazoned arms, or gallant devices; while the master, wrapped in
ermines, guided with silken reins the flying horses, who, caparisoned
in glittering housings, flashed by the spectator like the steeds of the
sun. In some of the gayest _traineaux_, formed like scallop-shells and
bedded with fur, beautiful women were seen reclining, while gentlemen
sat on the sledge behind, managing the horses, and conversing with the
ladies.

Louis was particularly struck with the singular beauty of the animals
which drew these carriages. They were evidently of the Arabian breed,
slight of limb, and carrying their branching necks with the grace of
an antelope. The peculiar airiness and freedom of their pace, suited
well with the Eastern magnificence of their trappings. An equipage with
four of these fine creatures had just engaged his attention, when he
found himself hurried forward by a crowd of foot-passengers, rushing
to meet a cavalcade which preceded the Empress. At the moment of
general clamour, he thought he heard his own name suddenly ejaculated.
He listened,--it was repeated, and in the voice of Duke Wharton.
Louis's heart leaped to the sound. He turned towards it, and saw the
Duke standing behind the car of one of the Arch-duchesses. Another
gentleman shared his post of honour, and guided the reins, while the
Duke's eyes met the eager recognition and out-stretched arms of his
friend. The carriage shot swiftly onward, but Wharton also extended his
arms to Louis, and, as he was snatched from his sight, pointed to the
_Favorita_. Louis understood that it was there he must seek him; and
thither he determined to go, when he should walk out the following day.

The sight of the Duke, not merely recalled the enthusiastic feeling
with which he originally regarded him, but presented to Louis the image
of England, and all that it contained dear to his habits and to his
heart! Tears rushed into his eyes: they seemed to overflow his soul,
as he clasped his hands and inwardly exclaimed, "England! beloved land
of liberty and tenderness! renown may be sought in other countries, but
happiness is to be found in thee!"

For the first time since his arrival at Vienna, did he allow his heart
to speak even to himself, to acknowledge that he was unhappy! That he
had exchanged the generous freedom of the home of his youth, for harsh
imprisonment in a foreign land. That he had parted with relations, who
loved and honoured him, to become dependent on a stranger, and bound to
the toil of a slave!

"Is such to be the purpose of my life?" said he to himself, as, with
eyes blinded by emotion, he turned from the gay scene; "is such to be
the oblivion of all that I took so much pains to acquire? Such, the
grave of talents, my too partial relations cherished with so many
hopes? My boasting ambition! Where has it led me? Oh, Wharton, what
will you see me now? Crushed in spirit, and bowed with servitude;
cheated into vassalage; and chained to an employment, that any hireling
might perform as honourably! For, what trust is confided in me? I copy
an unknown character; from whom, and to whom, I am completely ignorant.
No, it cannot be the will of my father, thus to degrade and sacrifice
his son!"

With these thoughts goading his fevered nerves, un-noting the way he
went, he hurried from the Danube. By accident he took the path to
the Chateau, and his guide, marvelling at the fitful humours of the
young secretary, followed in silence. With a pulse in every vein, and
feelings exasperated at the present, from immediate comparison with
the past, and yearning for the moment of throwing himself into the
arms of Wharton; as if that one embrace would restore to him at once,
his liberty, his country, and his friends; Louis did not recover his
attention to visible objects, till he found himself again within the
dreary walls of the Chateau. He locked himself into the room of his
labour, and throwing himself on the floor, gave way to the regrets that
overwhelmed him in restrainless floods of bitter tears. In Lindisfarne,
he had wept in tenderness and in sorrow. He had known the pangs of
parting, and given the tribute of his tears to the racking moment. But
he had never felt completely unmanned until now.

Hour passed over hour; Gerard knocked at the door, to announce that
his solitary meal was prepared, but he knocked unheeded. At last, the
deepening glooms of evening enclosing him in darkness, reminded him
the day was past, and that his demanded task of the morning was yet
to begin. Aware that the man, whom he was required to revere as a
guardian, but whom the pangs of recollection made him now abhor as
a tyrant, would exact it from him at midnight; he started from the
ground. At that moment of self-recall to labour, the yoke of bondage
pressed with insupportable weight upon his soul.

"I will not endure it!" cried he, "why should I immure myself like
a condemned wretch? Shut up in solitude, fastened to the duty of a
machine; Without sound of human voice, but that of my hard task-master!
Without breathing the free air of Heaven; unless accompanied with
lackies! Is this a fate, chosen by the Baron de Ripperda for his son,
his only son? It is mockery, and I will not endure it."

The fever in his blood exaggerated to his perturbed mind every
mysterious circumstance in his situation. He might be now the
unconscious instrument of treason, or the cheated agent of political
treachery. His father's confidence might be abused by the impenetrable
Ignatius, and he be ignorant, alike of his son's being at Vienna, and
of the illiterate drudgery to which he was consigned.

All this seemed the strange effect of Louis having seen Duke Wharton.
But much sprung from a distempered imagination, and disordered nerves;
the consequence of loneliness, want of exercise, and long confinement
in a deleterious atmosphere. However, the sudden appearance of
Wharton was certainly the circumstance which at once awoke all his
sensibilities to the perception of his changed state; of the liberty
he had been persuaded to relinquish, of the liberty he might, perhaps,
regain by the Duke's interference. The last idea was a vague one, but
still it was visible; it had a shadowy existence between hope and
despair, and Louis clasped at the delusive shade.

A prey to these confused imaginations, he could not command either the
desire or the power to resume his labours. Leaning his throbbing head
upon the table, he allowed the gloom of black night to surround him;
without even the wish to dispel it, by going into the adjoining room
for one of the candles which had been for so many hours burning to
waste.

As the old clock of the mansion struck ten, he was aroused from his
moody position by a gleam of light. He looked up, and saw the Sieur
Ignatius standing before him, with a lamp in his hand.

Louis started, disordered, from his chair.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the Sieur, in a kindly voice; "I
fear you are seriously ill."

Louis, in attempting to speak, was agitated to suffocation. Ignatius
fixed his eyes on his haggard countenance.

"Your zeal has over-wrought your strength. Health is as necessary as
will, to the completion of your duty. In these respects you must learn
to be an economical, as well as a generous servant to your country; for
that is the only way to be an efficient one. I see you have been too
ill to prepare this night's papers."

The unusual interest in his feelings, which this address intimated; and
the perfect confidence in his will to perform, what he had not done,
smote on the heart of Louis; and, embarrassed and miserable, he bowed
in silence.

"Sit down," continued the Sieur, evidently struck with the changed
appearance of his charge; "I was improvident not to calculate on the
ardour of your character, and give you orders to make pauses in your
work, and take daily exercise in the garden. I ought to have thought
on the garden before; for your walk of to-day without the walls, has
already been productive of vexation. You have been seen, and to my
great embarrassment, recognised. Have you any idea by whom?"

"By the Duke of Wharton," returned Louis, with all the recollections of
that moment flushing his cheek; "I saw him on the Danube."

"And you saluted him first?" demanded Ignatius.

"No;" answered Louis, "but I turned to a voice calling on my name
through the crowd, and met the eyes of my friend."

"And he recognised you, and you him?"

"We did."

"Mischief upon mischief!" ejaculated the Sieur, starting from his
chair, and striding across the room in extraordinary discomposure. He
turned suddenly upon Louis.--"So thoroughly did I believe you incapable
of conduct so inconsistent with your awful engagements, that I have
absolutely contradicted the mutual recognition. On being told of it
to night by the Emperor's confessor, and the inferences drawn from
the fact; I empowered him to affirm that he knew from an authority he
could not dispute, that Louis de Montemar _was not in Vienna_; and that
whoever had occasioned the report, must have mistaken some other person
for the son of the Baron de Ripperda. Think then, faithless boy, into
what a dilemma your recognition of Duke Wharton has brought the friend
of your father! Into what a danger you have precipitated the cause, in
which that father has embarked his fortunes and his life!"

"Sir," said Louis, with the dignity of conscious probity answering a
man who had so lately put his affirmation to a falsehood; "my office
here is inconsistent with my awful engagements. I bound myself to
the dedication of all my talents, all the energies of my mind and
heart, to the service of my father's country, now become mine; and
to be obedient to him, as its agent. But I find myself, and all
these talents, few or many, which have been the labour of my life to
cultivate, chained down to the one mechanical act of writing on this
table, in a character unknown to me, and on subjects concerning which
I am as ignorant as the messenger that carries them to and fro! I am
not treated with the confidence of a son, but the suspicion of a slave;
and I have my doubts that I am really so degraded by the commands of my
father."

"This is new language Louis de Montemar! You have spoken with the Duke
of Wharton. He knows all that you know: and he has put this complexion
on the affair! well he knows how to sap and to overturn--and a fit
agent for a father's ruin, he has found in the son of the Baron de
Ripperda."

As the terrible Ignatius delivered this, he approached close to Louis,
and seizing his arm, fixed on him his powerful eyes, as if to look
into his soul.

"I can bear your scrutiny, Sir," said he, "were you to rip open my
breast with the poniard your hand rests upon. It is not in me to betray
any man. I have not spoken with Duke Wharton."

"And you must not," returned the Sieur, recovering his presence of
mind, and dropping his hand from the dagger's hilt he had unconsciously
grasped; "you must avoid, avoid even the chance of his seeing you
again. You are ill, and you are moody. You require air and action; and
you shall have them: but henceforth they must be found in the garden
of the Chateau. Be obedient to this necessity; and I will forget
the phrenzied language, which, if not Wharton, some demon must have
conjured, to betray your reason and your duty."

"Sir," replied Louis, in great emotion; "I do not wish you to forget
it. I wish you to answer me to all its points. I wish to know at once,
whether I am a trusted servant, or an abused slave? Trust me, and
that labour will be happiness--distinction!--which is now misery, and
degradation insupportable!"

For some time the lofty Ignatius regarded his pupil's almost convulsed
features with a steady perusal of their varying expressions.--At last,
putting his hand on the shoulder of Louis, he said in a calm voice;
"Compose yourself; and listen to me. Hear from my lips, truths that
must be your future guide in the destiny you have chosen; but to combat
with the evils of which, you come totally unprovided. You have educated
yourself for the service of your country.--You are full of ardour to
engage in it. But how? Not as she directs; but as yourself chuses. You
would fight her battles in the field of blood; you would fill her cars
of triumph! But you disdain to watch for her in secret, to labour in
obscurity for her ultimate peace. This last, is virtue in her purest
simplicity; and, therefore, your father awarded to the virgin honour of
his son, the unblemished sacrifice."

Louis believed that he now, indeed, listened to truth. But why did he,
who could impress it so powerfully, why did he utter so mean a denial
of the fact, as to affirm that the son of Baron de Ripperda was not in
Vienna?

The prompt intelligence of the Sieur's rapid glance, had seen the
effect of this assertion on the mind of his pupil; and while he pursued
his remarks on what had passed, he noticed the equivocation he had
made, as a common style in diplomacy: "your being in the suburbs,
and not in Vienna," said he, "afforded me the advantage of this
ambiguity. Always hold in mind, that no advantage, however trivial, is
contemptible to a negotiator. The smallest causes often produce the
greatest effects. Alberoni's mysterious policy, which held Europe in
awe for five years, was revealed and destroyed in one moment by the
dropping of his courier's cloak-bag into a river!"

While Louis sighed to think, that subterfuge could ever be a duty,
he was filled with ingenuous shame at the suspicions he had dared
to proclaim; at the reproaches with which his impatient doubts, and
personal feelings, had provoked him to insult the trusted friend
of his father. The forbearance of the Sieur Ignatius, under this
unexpected flood of impassioned violence, augmented the contrition of
the disordered offender; and when he rose to withdraw, Louis could only
say, "bear with me this night. I am incapable of speaking--almost of
thinking--but bear with me! and to-morrow, you shall find that I have
not listened in vain."




CHAP. II.


Next day found Louis in a state far from tranquillized. Thorough
dissatisfaction with himself, had prevented his eyes closing
during the night; and he arose in the morning, only to continue
his self-accusations. He condemned the indulgence of feelings so
inconsistent with his usual candour in dubious circumstances, and
which had hurried him, not only into an unreasonable despair of his
own situation, but, with the most dishonouring suspicions, to provoke
the man, who, it was madness to doubt, was the confidential colleague
of the Baron de Ripperda. And yet, while he vowed to himself, that no
privation of air or action, no solitude and monotony of life, should
ever excite him to a second murmur; while he panted for the moment in
which he might repair, by a full apology to the Sieur, the indignity he
had cast upon him; he could not warm the chill at his heart, when he
recollected that the first amends Ignatius was likely to demand of him,
would be to relinquish all hope of seeing the Duke of Wharton.

This conviction threw his still agitated mind into tumults. In the
parting interview between him and Mr. Athelstone, that venerable man
had taken off the absolute terms of his interdiction respecting the
Duke. In the wide and busy world, his nephew and Wharton might meet
again; and in circumstances that Louis could not bend to his promise
of avoidance. On this ground, the Pastor now left him to his own
discretion. "But, remember," added he, "it is to your _discretion_!"

Louis thought on this licence from his revered uncle, with the
outstretching arms of his soul towards his beloved friend; and, he
vainly pursued his laborious penmanship, to get rid of the attendant
ideas. The well-known voice, calling on him through the crowd, haunted
his ear. Again, and again, the form of his friend, leaning towards
him from the car, rose before him. He threw down his pen, and rested
his working brain upon his hand. He could not recollect how Wharton
looked, for he had not seen how he looked; all that his glad eyes had
taken in of that dear apparition, was, that it was him! That it was his
resplendent countenance which shone on him from that gay eminence!

"And I must not see it again!" cried Louis, "all with whom I am
connected, seem leagued at one time or other to exclude him from my
society. But they never can shut him from my heart. His gracious
selection of me, from a crowd, older and of more approved merit than
myself; his own distinguished qualities and irrepressible confidence
in my honour, have bound me to love him through a life that is
condemned to fly him, as if he were my direst enemy."

Louis opened his writing-case to recreate his eyes with the sight
of Wharton's letter, that he might hear him speak through that at
least; but as soon as he touched it, and saw the superscription, whose
characters again recalled the image of the writer, and with it the home
in which he had first read the letter; he dropped it back into the case.

"I will not further un-nerve myself," cried he, "by pressing memory on
my heart! I will not pervert hours of past happiness to the purposes of
present wretchedness. I must remember that I am called to self-denial;
and you, dear generous Wharton! fated to be my first, are to continue
my repeated sacrifice."

Louis was found at noon by his punctual visitor, seated at his desk
with his former diligence. A slight hectic coloured his cheek as he
rose to receive him.--The Sieur smiled. Louis again saw the heaven
open, which had beguiled him into confidence on his first arrival, and
this smile was not so flitting as its predecessor. It dwelt on his
features like a bending seraph lingering on its cloud.

"Louis," cried he, "I come to trust you."

Louis caught the hand which was extended to him, and pressed it to his
lips.

"I come to trust you," said he, "but not as I see you expect; I come to
call again upon your faith, to fulfil the whole of this affair, while
you must yet remain ignorant of its particular purpose; to _trust in
your honour_, that you will not further doubt the integrity of the
man on whom your father has conferred confidence without reserve. His
interests and mine are united, never to be separated in this world:
we rise, or we fall together. You redden Louis! But I do not trifle
with you. It is possible that accident, if not design, may betray a
scheme of such important bearings; and I will not leave it in the power
of malice to accuse the son of Baron de Ripperda of treachery, or of
imprudence in such a case."

"My recent conduct," replied he, "gives you no reliance on my prudence;
and you believe me unworthy of fuller confidence."

"No, Louis,--that I still hold you in ignorance, is a greater proof of
my dependence on your fidelity, than if I bound your personal interests
with your honour, by unfolding to you any part of the glorious plan
on which you are employed. Your oath ties your conscience to the
fulfilment of your duty, but I want your free-will. I want, what I
thought I had. The open eye of faith in the virtue of your cause,--the
forward hand of zealous devotedness in the execution. Give me your
mind, Louis, and I shall no longer see that changing cheek and languid
frame? Zeal is life."

"Again I pledge myself," returned he, "I will be all you require,
only trust me!" Then with a sudden paleness displacing the flush of
resolution, and with a forced smile, he added, "I know I must prove my
sincerity by a victim; and I yield a dear one. I will not see the Duke
of Wharton, till you or my father grant me that privilege."

"To see him," replied the Sieur, resuming his usual austerity, "it is
probable you may one day have perfect liberty, but never to cultivate
his friendship."

"How?--Wherefore?"

"He is the enemy of your father."

"O, No--I have reason to believe he would gladly make my father his
friend."

The moment this had escaped him, Louis could have plucked his tongue
out for having uttered so inconsiderate a speech; so much did he
fear that Ignatius would immediately demand what was that reason. But
for once, the sagacious politician lost an opportunity of acquiring
information respecting the views of a rival. Absorbed in the haughty
consciousness of his own pre-eminence, he did not put the dreaded
question, but with a scornful motion of his lips, replied.--

"I doubt it not.--But Philip Wharton would purchase without gold. He
may defraud, but he cannot bestow."

"I do not understand you, Sir?"

"Future events will speak plainly," returned the Sieur, "and meanwhile,
I rely on your engagement to avoid him."

Louis smothered an indignant rising in his bosom, and without
answering, bowed his head in ratification of his promise.

Ignatius turned to the table, and gathering up the manuscripts
prepared for him, told his now silent companion, that he need not
resume his labours till he had taken the air on the terrace. "But,"
added he, "you must not forget that for every day, until I direct
otherwise, the garden is your utmost limits."

"I shall not wish to extend them," replied Louis, with a resigned but
lofty bow, and the Sieur left the room.

With his expanding heart again closed by the repulsive demeanor of his
governor, Louis saw him depart. A feeling of complete desolation spread
over his soul. Without having found comfort in his presence, he felt
a more dreary loneliness when he was gone, as the hope of winning at
all on his unbending nature, seemed utterly at an end. He had tried
it, by anticipating what he knew would be exacted, the resignation
of his friend. But Ignatius had received the sacrifice, not merely
without sensibility, but with the most unsparing remarks. The tender
care with which all his good dispositions had been fostered by the
secluded guardians of his youth, made him doubly feel how sterile is
the communion of the world. Interest may bind man to man, and extort
the convenience of virtue; but affection is not there, to nourish or to
reward its growth.

"Misjudging Ignatius! he demands my mind, when he might have my heart!
I would love him, but he will not let me. In vain I watched for another
of those smiles; the first, I hailed on my arrival as an earnest of a
gracious master! And the second, which greeted me to-day, as a pledge
of forgiveness of my yesterday's impatience, how soon was it displaced
by the hard aspect of despotic command! But I deserve it," exclaimed
he, "did not my humiliation, at having so frantically rebelled, vanish
as soon? I was even on the point of a second violence, had not some
good angel stilled the tumult in my breast." Having walked his dismal
apartment some time, continuing the same soliloquy, he threw himself
into a chair to compose his mind, and to confirm it. He arraigned
himself for the weakness of his present discontents, and summoned his
best reason to the forming a steady resolution of pursuing his duty
upon the principle of enduring as well as acting. He reviewed the past
and the present with an impartial eye; and where he saw he failed,
condemned himself with an inexorable judgement.

In this hour's communing with himself, he found how different is the
real from the imaginary contest; how wise is speculation, how absurd
practice; how easy profession, how difficult performance; and that of
all conquests, that of reason over a refractory heart, is the hardest
to acquire. After these humbling reflections, he walked forth a victor,
though a wounded one, to cheer himself with the glories of the setting
sun. Its reclining orb had never failed to recall the compact which
his heart had made, when he beheld it for the last time on the verge of
his native hills. But this evening, its mild religious light, gradually
withdrawing into the clouds, as the golden disk sunk beneath the earth,
reminded him so touchedly of the venerable saint whose emblem he had
called it, that he could not forbear exclaiming,

"Yes, my revered uncle! Those pious hands shall not always be raised
in vain. I trust, that henceforth I shall do my duty in a manner
more befitting the character you fondly believed mine; but on which,
recent experience has too repeatedly shewn me, how slight ought to
have been my dependance. For your sake, dear instructor of my youth!
I will do all, and be all, that is required of me. I will forget your
graciousness, that, in this land of severity, I may act worthy of your
hopes. _They who led me away captive, require of me a song, and melody
in my heaviness_! and, for thine honour, gentlest of human beings, I
will _take my harp from the willows_, and be as happy as this stubborn
heart will let me."

For several succeeding weeks, Louis steadily obeyed the law he had
enjoined himself. The exasperation of his mind gradually subsided;
his awakened sensibilities sunk to repose; and he concentrated his
thoughts as much as possible upon his unchanging toil. As he constantly
passed part of every day in the open air, he found companions, and even
social ones, in the birds he fed with the crumbs from his breakfast.
Their grateful chirpings were cheerful; and as he paced the snows of
the garden, his blood regained its vigour, and the elasticity of his
spirits revived. Again his cheek wore the brightness of health; and his
volant step, too often reminded him how narrow were his boundaries.
His eye, however, was yet free to range; and its excursions were wide
as the horizon. It sought the heights of Mount Calemberg, whose hoary
summits mingled with the hazy west; or when the winter day put on a
fairer garb, he contemplated their snowy peaks piercing the glittering
sky, and cloathed in all its splendor. A little convent, like
_Paraclete's white walls and silver springs_, stood in an umbrageous
cleft of the mountain; whose icicled trees, and frozen stream, promise
a luxuriant scene in verdant summer.

But Mount Calemberg, with all its beauties, was not as fair to him, as
cloud-capt Cheviot, clad in her storms, and standing sublime amidst
the roaring torrent, and the shouts of the hunters echoing from her
hills. He sighed for the joyous chace, for the jocund hour of return.
He thought the voices of his uncle's boon companions, would no more
sound discordant in his ear; even for the cry of their dogs, and their
own loud halloos, reverberating from the walls of the old hall of
Bamborough, what would he now give?

"Churl that I was," cried he, "not to allow people to be happy, but in
my own way! And fool too, to despise them for being happy, with the
humbler talents bestowed on them by the God of nature!"

Louis blushed to feel, that we must suffer, to value all that is
bestowed.

His wandering eye could not elude the attraction of another point. It
often turned to the yet frozen Danube, and tried, by straining its
powers, to discern amongst the variegated groups, any thing like the
person of his interdicted friend; but he gazed in vain. The river was
too distant to distinguish individuals; and all he saw, was a moving
pageantry, which might interest, but could never satisfy him, as it was
probable it contained Wharton, and it was impossible for him to see
him, if it did.

Louis was constant in these walks, and the Sieur as regular in his
evening visits. The one, always greeted his governor with cheerfulness;
and the other, his pupil, with a stateliness, which shewed approbation,
only by silence from reproof. But Louis was content, and the whole
glided smoothly on.

The name of Wharton never occurred between them, to disturb the
unruffled surface, but once; and that was occasioned by the Duke's
parting letter to Louis, dropping out of his private portfolio, one
evening when Ignatius asked if he could furnish him with a sheet of
paper bearing the English water-mark. As the letter fell with the seal
to the floor, the Sieur's observing eye recognised the hand-writing,
and, though unused to the bending mood, he stooped to take it up.

"You have corresponded with Wharton!" cried he, holding the letter in
his hand; "what, did he tell you, was his object in leaving England
last autumn?" "Nothing, Sir;" replied Louis, stretching out his hand
rather too eagerly to receive the letter; but Ignatius retained it.
"That was the first, and the only letter, with which he ever honoured
me."

"It is in answer then, to one from yourself?"

"No; I have never written to him. That was sent to me the night
he quitted England, to go----he did not say whither; and so the
correspondence ended."

"And, as certainly, he did not desire its continuance," replied the
Sieur. He observed Louis start, and redden with an air of offended
incredulity. "Else why," resumed he, "did he omit naming to you
the place of his destination? But," added he, throwing the letter
contemptuously on the table, "Wharton was always a creature of caprice,
and you will not be the last ball his racket will strike out of his
careing."

Stung with the sarcasm of this remark, mortified at being supposed
liable to such trifling, and jealous for the sincerity of his friend,
with flashing eyes Louis took up the letter, and held it silently in
his hand. He stood a few minutes, struggling to subdue the resentment
that was ready to burst from his lips. The Sieur appeared to have
already forgotten the matter, and was calmly examining the manuscripts
on the table. This apathy was more galling, than perhaps further
remark. Louis pressed on his swelling heart the recollection of the
vow he had made to himself, _to bear all_, as well as _to do all_, the
will of this arrogant man; and turning towards his port-folio, he was
replacing the letter in the case, when Ignatius looking up, said in a
voice that was careless of being heard,

"It is pity, to see ingenuous youth treasure a counterfeit, for true
metal."

"Your observation, Sir," said Louis, "does not touch the Duke of
Wharton."

"But it might you, Louis;" coolly answered the Sieur, "for you hold a
proof of his ephemeral attachments, in your hand."

Louis felt an instant impulse to disprove at once this contemptuous
inference, by requesting Ignatius to read the Duke's letter; but the
next moment he bethought him, whether there were ought in the contents
his misjudged friend might wish not to be exposed to an enemy. For
such, he could not but perceive the inveterate Ignatius was to Wharton.
There was a mixture of malignant contempt, with evident apprehension
of his influence somewhere, which marked the sentiment the Sieur
entertained for him; but whether from personal dislike, or solely on
account of the asserted hostility between him and Baron de Ripperda,
Louis could not be sure; though he certainly saw hatred in his
governor's deeply sunken eyes, whenever he spoke of the Duke.

To persist in silence, seemed to Louis to be sanctioning these
calumnies on his friend, and to continue asserting without offering
proof, he was aware would only redouble the scorn of his antagonist.
Placed in a torturing dilemma, he stood recollecting whether the
contents of the Duke's letter were such that he might safely shew; when
the Sieur, rising from his seat, said in an exasperating tone of pity;
"put up your relic, Louis! though I see you are properly ashamed of a
credulity too natural to the vanity of youth."

"No, Sir;" returned he, opening the letter with a trembling hand; "I
should detest myself, if I thought I had a spark within me of any
thing so mean as vanity. But if I had, Duke Wharton is of too noble a
nature to play upon credulity so worthless. That letter, Sir, if you
will condescend to read it, will shew you that I am honoured with his
friendship."

Ignatius had now wrought Louis to the point at which he aimed, but
maintaining his air of indifference, he took the letter from the
agitated hand of his pupil, without observation. Louis presented it
with a proud look, and stood as proudly watching his countenance while
he read it. The Sieur went over it twice; he then coldly returned it,
with the remark, "it is beyond my skill to expound so curious a riddle,
but as you are his friend, you doubtless have a key?"

All the self-confidence, which a moment before had dilated the
indignant heart of Louis, fell in an instant. He did not anticipate
this sort of observation on the letter, and alarmed at the impressions
which must have given rise to it, he stood in speechless embarrassment.

"This piece of paper," continued Ignatius, "is mere nonsense to me;
and proves nothing, of what you to wish prove, unless you can do it by
explaining its meaning?"

Louis remained silent.

The Sieur proceeded:--"You ought not to have put such seeming foolery
into my hands, unless you were prepared to be its commentary."

"Then return it to me, Sir," cried Louis, overwhelmed with confusion,
"and forget that you have seen it."

"I never forget any thing that I have seen, and, I am not to be trifled
with. You have called my attention to this letter; you have shewn it
to me, as a proof of Duke Wharton's confidence in you: but I see only
a farrago of words, which, you have now pledged yourself to put into
reasonable meaning by your explanation."

Louis's consternation was so great, at so unlooked for a consequence
of what he had done, that he could not recollect what he had said,
or might have implied to the Sieur; and he continued to gaze on the
ground, humbled to the dust. "Oh!" cried he, in the depths of his soul,
"was I then under the immediate control of detested, mischievous
vanity, at the very moment I disclaimed its presence in my heart!
Wretch that I am, to have been betrayed by any motive, to open the
faintest glimmering of light upon the secrets of my friend, to this
inexorable man!"

The recollection of Wharton's words, _I put my life into your hands!_
rose before his mental sight in characters of blood; and turning sick
at heart, he supported a momentary failure of his limbs, by grasping
the back of a chair. The sight of this agitation only stimulated the
curiosity of Ignatius, or, whatever else it was that impelled him to
persecute his unoffending charge to such a point of distress.--He
resumed.

"You have gone too far, to be silent now, I can comprehend, that
certain phrases in this enigmatical epistle, refer to former
conferences with you. Brutus and Cassius are not usually masquing
names in affairs of gallantry, therefore, the nature of your mutual
confidence I can guess; and it is necessary for your own, as well as
the Duke's honour, that you should tell me their object."

"Sir," said Louis, "I have already done too much for my own honour.--The
Duke's can never be injured by any thing I can say or withhold. And, I
will mention his name no more."

"Young man," said Ignatius, "you must not add obstinacy to rashness.
You have allowed yourself to be made privy to the schemes of a man who
is suspected by his country! Be aware, that to conceal treason, is to
share it."

Louis did not speak.

The Sieur continued: "Besides, you are answerable to your country, and
to your father, who has devoted you with himself, to her interests, to
reveal to him, as to your confessor, every event of your life. Much
more, then, a circumstance like this. For, on your father's intimate
acquaintance with every political device which could possibly disturb
Europe, depends his guiding to perfection the mighty machine he is
now constructing to give peace to the world. Hence, the glory of your
father, as well as your vow to Spain, commands you to bend all minor
considerations to the great duty of your life; and to confide to him,
through me, every confidence of a political nature which has passed
between you and the Duke of Wharton."

"The glory of my father," replied Louis, "can never be augmented by
his son's faithlessness. And could Spain require such a proof of my
attachment to her, the law of God, which is the everlasting appeal from
all human ordinances, would sanction me in abjuring my vow!"

"You grant that Wharton has engaged your faithfulness! A secret
implied, is a secret revealed; and further withholding a full
acknowledgement, is finesse with me, and irreverence to your father.
The Duke left Vienna a few weeks ago, secretly, and I have reason to
believe, you could guess whither he is gone?"

"Sir," answered Louis, "I neither say, nor do not say, that I have
been honoured with any confidence whatever, by the Duke of Wharton;
but I repeat, that neither to my father, nor to any man living, do I
think it necessary to betray a trust in me. Therefore, as I cannot
repeat discourses I have never heard, and will not repeat discourses
confided to me; you cannot be surprized that I hold my peace. My
inconsideration, to give it the mildest appellation, has gone far
enough, in shewing Duke Wharton's letter, however indifferent its
subject, without his permission."

The Sieur fixed his investigating eye upon the determined brow of his
pupil.

"Louis de Montemar," cried he, "you have imprudence enough in your
composition to ruin a state; and sufficient stubbornness of what you
call Honour, to ensure your own destruction. If you do not mean to
relax the one, you must learn to confirm your mind against the wild
influence of the other. Act less from passion, and more from principle.
Be wary of friend, as well as foe; and never speak from your heart,
till your words have paused in your head, to take the judgment of your
circumspection. Had you shewn this letter to one less interested in
your welfare, than your father's friend, the suspicion its style would
have awakened, might have wrought consequences ruinous to the Duke, and
not much less full of evil to yourself. I shall now drop the subject
for ever, because I see that you will not neglect its lesson."

With the gratitude of one escaped from a snare, into which he thought
he had desperately, and therefore blameably rushed, Louis took the
letter, which the Sieur presented to him. His ingenuous cheek flushed
with displeasure at himself for having been beguiled, rather than at
the subtle trier of his wariness; and respectfully, though silently, he
bowed his head to his unanswerable monitor. Ignatius fell immediately
into his usual abstracted mood, and soon after left the room.




CHAP. III.


Three days after this discussion, Louis had just seated himself at his
morning task, when he heard a knock at the chamber door. This was an
unusual circumstance, for Gerard never approached with such signal,
but at the hours when his stroke was to announce the frugal repast in
the adjoining apartment. The Sieur always entered with his own key;
and this was a time of the day he never visited the Chateau. Louis
thought it could be no summons to him, and that probably Gerard had
accidentally occasioned the noise in passing. But in another minute, he
heard a second knock, louder than the former. He then rose to see what
it was, and to his surprise beheld Castanos; whom he had not seen, or
heard of, since his departure with the dispatches for Spain.

Hoping to hear news of his father; and that his letter to Don Ferdinand
had reached him in safety; Louis eagerly bade him welcome from Madrid.
With a deepened gloom on his always sullen countenance, Castanos
roughly interrupted him.--

"I am sent to tell you, Senor, that the Sieur Ignatius is at the point
of death."

"Impossible!" cried Louis, "he was not here yesterday; but I saw him
the evening before, in perfect health."

"Last night he was stabbed in the porch of the Jesuits' College,"
returned Castanos.

Louis's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, as grasping the arm of
his unfeeling informant, he seemed to demand, who had done it? For once
in his life, the morose Spaniard suffered his half-closed eyes to look
directly on the face of a fellow-creature. He was not insensible to
the horror depicted on Louis, and in more humane accents replied--

"Villains way-laid him in the porch at the outer gate of the College,
where he always quits his carriage. They closed on him: but he
struggled, and drew his dagger. The business, however, was soon over;
for the stroke of some heavy weapon felled him to the ground; and while
he lay insensible, to make sure work, they stabbed him, and fled. But
the drawn blood did a service not intended.--It recovered my lord
Ignatius from his swoon; and he managed to stagger to the gate, and
gain admittance. When I was sent for to his chamber, which was not till
this morning, I found surgeons and a priest with him; and they declare
his wounds dangerous."

"And am I not to see him?" cried Louis, forgetting his hard
task-master, in the image of a fellow-creature dying by murder; that
fellow-creature was his father's friend; and he repeated, "may I not
go to him?"

"I came to bring you to him," replied Castanos.

Shocked as he was by the horrid recital, Louis felt an emotion of
pleasure at this summons. To be to his severe, but he believed upright
guardian, a more soothing attendant than was in the power, if indeed in
the will of the rugged Spaniard, gave a generous satisfaction to his
heart. Having carefully locked the chamber which contained the secret
papers; that, whether the Sieur lived or died, his injunctions might be
equally respected; Louis accompanied his old conductor to a carriage
which awaited them in the court-yard.

While driving down the avenue, and crossing the esplanade into the
city, both Louis and his companion were lost in thought. At last
the former, hardly conscious of giving utterance to his meditations
suddenly asked Castanos whether he had any idea of the motive of this
horrid deed "Not robbery," replied the Spaniard; "they never stopped
for plunder. They wanted his life. And, I believe, we may curse the
jealousy of your father's political enemies for the motive. I brought
my dispatches from Madrid yesterday morning; and yesterday night these
daggers were at work."

"But how," returned Louis, "can the death of the Sieur Ignatius be of
such moment to my father's enemies, that they should load their souls
with this assassination, and leave my father alive?"

"Senor," said Castanos, "you know little of politicians. The agents
of such rivals are always in danger. So you will do well to look to
yourself."

"No man knows me in this capital."

"But some may know your employment; and that is the object of
grudge.--Since the stilleto has reached our master, we know not how far
it may be from ourselves."

Louis could not bid him not fear; for the assault on their employer
proved that danger was connected with their situation; and being
ignorant of what that situation really was, he could not foresee whence
the danger might issue, nor how it might be repelled. He therefore made
no reply; neither did he ask any more questions of a man, who, when he
did break his sullen taciturnity, was ever more inclined to engloom an
evil prospect, than to cheer it with a ray of hope.

The silence that ensued, was not interrupted till the carriage drew up
before a colossal column, surmounted by a bronze statue of the Virgin
Mary, and in front of which stretched the dark walls of the College. At
the portico they alighted.

"Here," muttered Castanos, "is the place of blood; and its marks are
yet on the stones."

As he said, Louis saw; for it might be tracked from the spot where he
supposed the Sieur had fallen, to where he rose and made his way to the
gate. Louis shuddered at such a proof of the most dreadful part of
the Spaniard's tale, and hastened to follow him through the porch. He
entered a large quadrangle, surrounded by cloisters. As they proceeded,
Louis perceived several persons in dark monastic habits, walking to
and fro under the colonades. When he approached, they eyed him with
curiosity; and when two or three were together, they whispered as he
passed. Castanos seemed vexed by this notice; but without remarking
on it, hurried his companion towards a great door at the extremity of
one of the cloisters. He struck it with his clenched hand, and it was
instantly opened by a man, who Louis recognised to be Martini, the
servant who had attended him in his only walk beyond the walls of the
Chateau. He immediately enquired whether the Sieur had undergone any
change since Castanos left him.

"No, Signor. The Superior of the College is with him now, but he is
impatient for your arrival."

"Shew me to his apartment," cried Louis; and following with fleet steps
the long strides of the Italian, the father of the Jesuits met him, as
he passed into the presence of the wounded Ignatius.

The chamber was then left entirely to the invalid, and to the
conference he had so strenuously desired to have with his secretary.
Louis advanced into the room. Ignatius lay on a low couch, which, from
its form and sombre appointments, looked more like a bier for the
dead, than a bed of rest for the living. It stood in the center of an
arched cove at the end of the apartment. Louis approached in speechless
awe. As he drew near, he saw the body of the Sieur extended under the
coverlid, in the position he should have expected had he been to find
him in his shroud. His head lay flat on the pillow, and was so veiled
in a black cowl, nothing could be discerned of his face, but his ashy
lips and grizzled beard.

Ignatius knew the step that so cautiously drew near his bed, and feebly
raising the arm, which his pupil now saw had lain enveloped in black
upon the dark coverlid, he put out his hand to him. Louis clasped it
gently in his, but forbore to speak. He felt himself pressed by the
cold fingers of Ignatius; and there was an expression in the touch
that said, he understood his sympathy. Louis bent his head to that not
silent hand, and put it to his lips.

"Son of Ripperda," said the Sieur, in a low agitated voice; "thou hast
a kindly heart!"

"The son of Ripperda," replied Louis, "could not feel otherwise
towards the friend of his father. But I would devote myself to watch
this couch, for the Sieur Ignatius's own sake." Again he felt his
hand pressed by the wounded man; and the smile, which was once so
beautiful, flitted over his shrouded countenance like a departing
spirit. Louis turned icy cold. He had never seen any one on a
death-bed; and that spectacle, which he believed was now before him,
shivered him to the soul.

"Louis," said the Sieur, after a pause, "I have not summoned you
hither, to wait upon the tedious hours of my recovery, but to perform
my part in the place, where jealousy of my success has brought me to
this. You must go to the Imperial palace; I am expected there in the
course of an hour; for none there yet know of this assassination. You
must see the Empress, and acquaint her with what has happened. With
difficulty I have written these few hardly legible lines, to assure her
she may trust you with any confidential paper or message to me; and she
too well knows my writing, to doubt their authenticity. My surgeons say
little to encourage hope, but tell Her Majesty, I feel a life in my
heart, that her enemies and mine have not been able to reach!"

Ignatius spoke this at intervals, checked at each sentence by internal
spasms from his most dangerous wound. But he shewed a vehemence at
the close, which his pupil had never before witnessed in his tempered
discourse. More than his usual caution seemed taken from his lips, and
as Louis apprehended the approach of delirium, he felt the hand which
still clasped his, flash at once into a scorching heat. The agitated
speaker gasped for breath, but after a momentary pause he began again,
and with rapid utterance went through a train of directions, to guide
his pupil in his conference with the Empress. In the midst of the most
energetic part of his discourse, his lip became convulsed, he suddenly
stopped, and dropping the hand he held, seemed as if seized at once by
the grasp of death. Louis sprang forward, to give air to the enveloped
face, but the moment Ignatius felt the attempt to withdraw his cowl,
he arrested the hand that touched it, and said in a stifled voice: "do
not be alarmed, I am not dying, but in pain. The villains struck well
through my side, but not quite home!--Go," continued he, "you will find
Martini in the anti-chamber. He has my orders to attend you to the
palace. You will then be conducted to the Altheim apartments; shew that
card to the page at the door, (it is written by the Empress's own hand,
to admit the possessor,) and he will immediately obey its command. In
those apartments you will see the Imperial Elizabeth."

Louis had been under no inconsiderable degree of surprize during many
parts of this discourse. Until now, he had supposed that the agency
of Ignatius was directed to some of the Austrian ministers, whom his
father probably wished to bring over to the present views of Spain.
He could hardly have suspected that so much caution and peril could
be connected with any negociation in which the sovereigns themselves
were principles; and that they should be principles, was astonishing
in itself. The Emperor's claims on the throne of Spain, and Philip's
repugnance to the Austrian possession of the Netherlands, united with
the pertinacious character of the two monarchs, and the usual turn
of human passions, would have made Louis affirm, that no political
adversaries could have been more naturally irreconcilable to amity
between them, beyond occasional shews of peace.

However the Sieur Ignatius had borne a reverse testimony. His pupil
could not doubt what he had said, and taking the credentials presented
to him, he was rising to withdraw, when the wounded man impressively
added; "remember, she alone knows that my secretary is Louis de
Montemar. In the guard-room, you will hear yourself announced as the
Chevalier de Phaffenberg."

Louis stood silent, without moving another pace to the door; "Oh!"
thought he, "another deception! How can that be right, which requires
so much wrong to support it!"

Not hearing his step, the Sieur guessed what was passing in his mind.
"I understand your hesitation," cried he, "though I cannot look on you;
the wound in my head, will not suffer my eyes to endure the light.
But Louis, you must not cross me at such an hour as this, with your
romantic prejudices. Should any want of caution discover you to the eye
or ear of an enemy, the blow that has only half reached me, may be made
sure; and the failure of our scheme at this crisis, would sink your
father's fame in everlasting dishonour."

"O! Sir," returned Louis, "I cannot connect dishonour with a scheme of
virtue, whatever may be its fortune! Is not my father labouring for
the happiness of Spain? For the peace of the world? If I had no other
repugnance, I cannot but shrink from giving up, even for an instant,
such a name as his."

"Louis," resumed the Sieur, his voice and manner evidently raised by
growing fever, "it is now in your power, and in yours alone, to keep
that name your distinction, or to brand it as your disgrace. Schemes
of policy have no character in the public mind, but according to
their issue. If success attend this of the Baron de Ripperda, it will
be sounded as a blessing to the nations; if it fail, obloquy will
proclaim it a conspiracy worthy their curses. Concealment now, is
present preservation, and victory hereafter. Remember, once for all,
that diplomatic simulation is no falsehood. It is expected; and is
no more a breach of honour, than an ambuscade in war. You are of the
Chateau Phaffenberg, while you reside in it. And thus we provide for
consciences of more sensibility than judgement. If there be sin, it is
on my head and your father's! Be satisfied with this, and depart on
your duty."

Louis placed his hand on his heart, as he replied, "my honour cannot be
satisfied by a quibble; nor my conscience with the responsibility of
another man. But it is possible I may overstrain the principles I hope
to live and die in; and therefore I obey."

As he left the room without further observation from the Sieur, the
virtuous pupil of the pious minister of Lindisfarne, folded his hands
together, and inwardly exclaimed; "these are labyrinths I never
expected to tread! and may the God I would not offend, be the guide of
my lips and of my actions!"

When he entered the anti-chamber, Castanos was sitting on a low bench
sulkily smoking a cegar, and Martini stood near him, discoursing in
a suppressed voice, but with vehement gesticulation. On hearing the
steps of Louis, the latter turned and caught up his hat.

"I am at your command Signor;" and without waiting for the order, he
led the way through the cloisters to the porch where the carriage
stood. Louis stepped in; and he followed, with the familiarity of a man
who felt his consequence in having been trusted with a confidence of no
mean bearing.

They drove on; and by the looks which Martini occasionally threw
towards him, Louis easily perceived his eagerness to be encouraged to
speak. Martini was as anxious to be always an orator, as Castanos to
maintain the character of a mute. But in the present case, Louis was
too much possessed with what he had just seen, and what he might soon
have to do, to be in any humour to gratify the conversational desires
of his conductor. In proportion as his frank countenance was inviting
to conversation, when he had no inclination to repel it; a dignified
reserve, which few persons would dare disturb, occupied every feature
when he wished to be left to his own thoughts. There was nothing severe
in the look, but it had the air of one accustomed to deference; and
though Martini would rather have met the social smile which Louis wore
on the Danube, he saw every thing to respect, but nothing to fear, in
the tacit command of his countenance.

Attentive to the Sieur's minutest injunctions, when Louis followed his
guide from the carriage into the palace, he folded his pelisse round
him, and drawing the fur of his winter-cap down upon his face, walked
on with little more than his eyes visible. On being saluted by the
officer in the guard-chamber, Martini announced Louis as the Chevalier
de Phaffenberg, who required to be conducted to the Altheim apartments.
A person was called to shew him the way, and as he turned to follow his
guide, Martini said aloud, "Chevalier, I await you in this chamber."

The man led him up the imperial staircase to a superb rotunda, whose
pillared arcades branched in all directions into long galleries of
equal magnificence. Through several of these, they took their way, and
in some of them, a few persons were seen passing lightly and silently
along, as if in the discharge of their respective services towards the
numerous august inhabitants. Louis thought of the palace of Thebes; and
as the smirking lips, but troubled brows, of these people met his eye,
he could not but think how base and how miserable is the coveted bread
of dependance.

He approached another of the many folding-doors which had led him from
gallery to gallery; and on opening this, his guide told the page within
to conduct the Chevalier de Phaffenberg to the Altheim apartment. "By
what authority?" asked the page.

The person from the guard-room had turned away on his return; but
Louis, without speaking, presented the passport from the Empress. The
youth bowed profoundly, and ushered him through a highly ornamented
vestibule, into first one, and then into another saloon still more
splendid. In the second, the page made another obeisance, and left him.
The Sieur had instructed him, merely to shew the imperial signature,
and not to ask for any body, but patiently to await, in this her
private _boudoir_, the arrival of the Empress. He had therefore leisure
to look around him, had his mind been sufficiently free from solicitude
to derive amusement from the endless varieties of art and nature
which decorated the place. In one part, an apparently interminable
conservatory, blooming with all the flowers of summer, wafted its
fragrance towards him. In another, opened a deep alcove of entire
mirror, which doubled the mimic garden; and in an opposite direction, a
stretch of canopied arches discovered chamber after chamber, till the
most capricious fancy might be sated with the gay variety.

Louis's eye hardly glanced along them, for he fell almost immediately
into an awful meditation on the scene he had just left, on the
probable death of the mysterious Ignatius; and, in the event of such
a catastrophe, what might be the consequence to his father. Would the
loss of so efficient an agent compel him to abandon his views? or would
he come to Vienna, and finish in person what his murdered friend had so
well begun? At the close of these melancholy cogitations, nothing but
gloomy images presented themselves; the dark-cowled priests flitting
around the bed of the dying Ignatius, and the dismal voice of Castanos,
presaging a similar fate to the Baron himself! In the midst of these
thoughts, he was startled by a sound in the adjoining chamber. He
looked towards it, and saw a lady, splendidly attired, approaching
him. Unused to courts, he hesitated whether he should go forward, or
await her advance; but as she drew near, the amazing beauty he beheld,
decided for him, and struck him motionless.

He had heard that the Empress was beautiful and young; but of any
thing like this bloom of youth, this splendour of beauty, he had no
expectation. It was more like the dream of the poet, than any _mortal
mixture of earth's mould_! He stood as one lost to recollection. The
lady did not seem less surprised, though certainly with less amazement.
On her first approach to him, when he took his cap from his head, and
his disengaged pelisse, falling back, discovered his youthful figure,
she retreated a step; but the next moment advancing, with a smile of
peculiar complacency, she observed, that "there must be some mistake,
for she came to meet a totally different person."

Louis tried to recover himself from the admiration her beauty had
excited, to the ceremonial due to her rank, and bowing with disordered
grace, he replied, "that he was sent by the person he believed Her
Majesty expected to meet in that chamber; and that he came a messenger
of distressing tidings. To say, that the Sieur Ignatius had been
attacked by ruffians, and was then lying in extremity at the Jesuits'
College."

The lady interrupted him; "Sir," said she, with an eager blush, "you
have done me the honour to mistake me for the Empress, whom I am so
happy as to serve; and being distinguished by my imperial mistress's
confidence, I came hither to request the Sieur Ignatius (whose
attendance she had required at this hour) to excuse her absence for
a few minutes. She is with the Emperor, and, when I deliver your
message, will expect you to await her commands."

With these words, the lady curtseyed and withdrew.

Louis gazed on the track through which she had disappeared. A vision
of some heavenly creature seemed to have passed before his eyes, to
give him assurance of what really did exist in the angelic world! The
apparition, the voice, had been seen and heard, and all was again
solitude and silence! Was it possible, he asked himself, that any thing
mortal could be so perfectly beautiful? that any thing earthly should
be too bright to look upon? Lost in the amazement of his senses, he
thought only of her; he had forgotten the majesty he came to visit,
and almost the disastrous tale that was his errand, when steps again
sounded in the adjoining apartment. He sprang towards the canopied
arch; the curtains were draperied back by two golden caryates, and his
eager eyes shot beyond; but another form appeared! another lady! of
beauty too; but blinded by excess of light, all other objects seemed
dark and indistinct before him.

She was less magnificently arrayed than her fair messenger, but
approached with so striking an air of dignity, that Louis could not
hesitate believing this must be the Empress. Respectfully meeting her
advancing steps, he bent his knee to her, as he presented the letter
from the Sieur. At the moment of her approach, his bewildered faculties
suddenly recollected that such was the attitude Ignatius told him, he
must assume in delivering his credentials.

The Empress stood still, and looked steadfastly on him for several
moments. Then taking the letter from his hand, in a voice of tender
commiseration, she bade him rise.

"The lady I sent hither, has informed me of your melancholy embassy,"
continued she, in the same gracious tone; "but I trust he is not
wounded past hope?"

"Not past his own," replied Louis, as he rose from his knee; "but the
surgeons are less sanguine."

With a troubled countenance, the Empress opened the letter and read it
hastily. She looked from its contents to its bearer; and fixing her
sweet but penetrating eyes anxiously on his face, said in a doubting
voice, "you are young, very young, for the trust I am called upon
to confide to you!" Still she looked on him, and still she spoke;
evidently without consciousness, uttering the remarks her observing
mind was passing upon his appearance. "A youth like you, must be too
fond of pleasure, to be a secure confidant! Too accessible--to much in
the power of circumstances. And at such a crisis too! But he tells me,
I may trust you as his son!"

Again she looked full at him. Louis's whole soul was fixed on that
look, and arouzed by its occasion. That the rigid Ignatius had given
such testimony of him, at such a moment, did not more surprise, than
determine him to perish, rather than dishonour it. He did not venture
to speak, but the expression of his eloquent countenance was more than
a thousand vows to Elizabeth.

She sighed deeply, and sitting down by a table, leaned her head upon
her hand. Louis remained standing where she had left him, regarding her
with respectful interest. At last she looked up, and waved her hand to
him to approach her.

"My heart is heavy," said she, "with the tidings you have brought
me. For, should my counsellor in all this, be indeed taken from me,
how incalculable are the difficulties into which I shall be plunged!
Nothing but full and complete success in the end, can excuse me to my
family and to the world, for the perils I incur in the progress."
Louis was silent.--Elizabeth resumed.

"You know to what I allude!"

"I know nothing," replied he, "but what the Sieur Ignatius has told
me; and that is, a general intimation of his possessing Your Majesty's
confidence: and that jealousy of so high distinction, he suspects to be
the cause of his present state."

The Empress took two or three turns up and down the room. She was
harrassed, and undecided, and often turned, to look again and again
upon the youthful secretary. She suddenly stopped.

"Did Ignatius tell you, who I know you to be?"

"He did.--That I am the son of the Baron de Ripperda."

As he made this simple reply, the pride he had in being the son of such
a father, seemed to encircle his brow with the before veiled diadem
of all his princely ancestors. "And where is your father?" asked the
Empress.

"At Madrid. And I cannot doubt that at such a moment, he would be eager
to hasten to the feet of the Empress Elizabeth; the generous truster in
his friend!"

The Empress shook her head--"Alas! Alas!" cried she; and again she
walked from Louis with a hurrying pace. For some time she continued
murmuring to herself, in a voice so low that he could not distinguish
what she said; but at last drawing near him, she again threw herself
into a chair, and spoke aloud. "You call me the generous truster in
his friend! I will be that to his son too. There is an honesty in
your countenance; an enthusiasm in your manner, so unlike a courtier,
that, I cannot but believe you trust-worthy! and, when _he_ says
it," added she, pressing the Sieur's letter in her hand; "it is
conviction.--Hearken then to me." Louis drew near.--And the Empress,
in a low but steady voice, imparted to him certain subjects of national
dispute between the empires of Germany and of Spain; and personal
rivalries between their respective sovereigns; which she and the Baron
de Ripperda, through the secret agency of Ignatius, were labouring to
reconcile. She intimated that her Imperial husband retained so much
of his ancient enmity to Philip; and the Austrian ministers were so
jealous of yielding advantage to the Spanish cabinet; she was obliged
to move towards her end with the strictest caution. Besides, she had
some collateral objects in view, which, if obtained, would not only
establish a cordial friendship between the two countries; but so
balance the power of the continent; that war, for this generation at
least, could hardly find a plea for disturbing the tranquillity of
Europe.

"Some of these plans," added she, "are more than suspected by my
enemies, and the enemies of my children; and since they have engaged
a certain wily English Duke in their interest, an hour does not pass
over my head without dread of the whole scheme being blown into the
air. Like an evil spirit, he can transport himself when and wherever
he pleases; and while he is invisible, work a train of mischief that
is felt through many nations. It was only yesterday that he returned
from one of his secret flights; from Paris, I suspect----" She suddenly
paused; and putting her hand to her head, appeared to muse for a few
minutes.

Louis's blood chilled at this mention of an English Duke. From what
Ignatius had said to him on the same subject, he was compelled to think
that the Empress could mean no other than Wharton. And, how strange it
was, that every person who had named that Duke to him with censure,
had all concurred in giving him some epithet of duplicity. Elizabeth
looked up, with an abrupt demand of her auditor, whether he thought the
assassination traceable to Duke Wharton? adding, that she did not know
a source whence it was more likely to spring.

"Madam," returned Louis, "I should as soon suspect it from my own hand."

She gazed on him, astonished.

"Yes!" repeated he, in a determined voice; "though it is possible that
Duke Wharton may be hostile to Your Majesty's politics; and even be the
personal enemy of the Sieur Ignatius; yet I know him too well, not to
stake my head on his abhorrence of a crime like this."

The Empress did not withdraw her penetrating eye from his face.

"I now remember," said she, "that it was he who spread the report at
the _Favorita_, that the Baron de Ripperda's son was at Vienna. He met
you on the Danube. But Ignatius assured me, you had never seen him
since!" "I never have.--And I never will, while he is an object of
suspicion to Your Majesty, and to my father's friend. But I must again
aver, as I would at the judgment-day, that Duke Wharton is incapable of
assassination."

"He shall be the better for your vindication," returned the Empress.
And then entering into a detailed communication, of what her new
confidant was to impart to Ignatius relative to the most open part
of their scheme; she gave him a letter, which she wrote, and sealed
in his presence, to acquaint the Sieur with the recent progress of
their more secret views. When she put it into the hand of Louis, she
said with much emotion, "the last courier from Madrid, wrought so
favourably on the Emperor, that I was even now conversing with him in
the highest spirits, when I was called to hear this danger of my noble
coadjutor!--Should I lose him at this moment, their daggers had better
have reached me! Louis de Montemar, guard his life, as you would your
own. You know not the value of the charge."

Louis received her command to be in these apartments the next day, at
the same hour, to give her tidings of the Sieur. She then presented her
hand to him to kiss, in sign of her favour to himself. He touched it
on his bent knee; and as she turned to withdraw, she told him a page
should attend him to the guard-room; but he must take such cognizance
of the passages, as henceforth to find his way in the palace alone.
Again she proceeded to the door, and again she turned round, and said
with agitated solemnity; "should any fatal change occur, come to me
to-night.--We will discourse together for the last time; and all that
I have said in this conference, you must regard as a dream--to be
forgotten!"

Louis silently bowed his head, and Her Majesty passed on. So crowded
were his thoughts with the events of the last six hours, he hardly
noted the time, though he did the situation of the ground, as the
promised attendant brought him to the guard-chamber.--Martini sprang
to meet him; and, a moment after, he had left the mansion of royal
splendors and luxury, to seek the cloisters of world-forswearing men!
All without, was darkness and assumed humiliation; but within, dwelt
the rulers of kings, the universal dictators, the all-compelling
Jesuits! Louis now entered, to visit one of the most extraordinary
personages that ever came within their walls; one, to whom the vast
machinery was all unfolded, by which these mighty workmen moved and
controuled the world.




CHAP. IV.


The information which Louis brought to the suffering Ignatius, did not
fail to heal the worst wound his enemies had inflicted; suspicion,
that their machinations had reached the mind of the Emperor. When
the surgeons visited their patient in the evening, they gave a more
favourable report on his symptoms with regard to fever, which was the
threatening danger of the morning. The manner of his passing the night,
they thought would be decisive for hope or fear, and Louis entreated
permission to attend his couch until day.

The Sieur peremptorily put his negative on this proposal. But Louis
was steady in not being denied watching by the side of Castanos in the
anti-room. Martini, with a surgeon and a priest, remained all night in
the cell of Ignatius; and that he slept most part of the time, Louis
was satisfied; as, with his strictest attention, he could hardly hear a
movement within.

Castanos, and his anxious companion, kept true vigils. The act was
the same, though the motives were as different as the two men. In
one of the dreary pauses of the night, when the intensity of Louis's
meditations, on the various objects which bore upon the event of the
present hour, had wearied his unrested spirit; he observed Castanos
shake the exhausted embers from his pipe; and desirous of asking
some questions respecting the fate of his packet to Don Ferdinand,
he thought he could not have a better opportunity, and while the old
Spaniard was twisting out his tobacco, he addressed him in a low voice.

"Senor Castanos," said he, "you were so kind as to deliver a packet
from me to Don Ferdinand d'Osorio, into the hands of my father?"

"No," returned he, "your father was not at Madrid."

"Then, what became of my packet?"

"It was sent with the dispatches, to where he ordered them."

"Then I may assure myself of its safety?--and that my father was well?"

Castanos had resumed his pipe, and made no answer. After the second
volume of renewed smoke had wreathed away from his sullen features,
Louis addressed him again.

"But of course you saw my father, before you left Spain? Under the
present anxious circumstances, it would particularly cheer me to know
that he is well."

Castanos drew in, and puffed forth another cloud; then indolently
sliding his words out of the unoccupied corner of his mouth, he sulkily
replied, "Senor, the less, in the present circumstances, you talk
of your father; the better for the object of your anxiety, and for
yourself!--Walls have ears."

With this apothegm, he resumed his smoking with redoubled energy, and
Louis submitted to the silence imposed.

A few hours more, and the dawn brought a more communicative comforter
from the inner chamber. Martini issued forth with smiling lips, to
announce that his master's symptoms were those to please the doctors,
for that he had just awoke with little remaining fever. The priest and
surgeon soon after appeared, bearing the same testimony; and the latter
communicated the Sieur's commands, for the Chevalier de Phaffenberg to
attend him immediately.

Though Louis shrunk from answering to the name, yet he hastened to
obey. Again Ignatius took his hand, but it was no longer with the icy
tremor of expiring life, nor the burning clasp of raging fever; there
was languor, but not death, in the pressure; and with heart-felt joy
Louis congratulated him on the certain hope of his recovery.

"It is well," replied the Sieur, "and we shall not be ungrateful for
it, where thanksgiving is due. But we must now proceed to business.
They tell me, my wounds are too deep, to give prospect of my quitting
this couch for many days. Our affairs will not brook that time. Your
duty at the Chateau, and mine at the palace, must continue to be
discharged, and you must perform them both."

Louis's assent was as prompt as the delight with which he embraced
active service. And if the idea of the bright form he had seen only
for an instant, did flash across his mind with a hope of beholding it
again; the passing thought was too transient to materially alloy the
pure zeal with which he pressed forward to his new duty.

The Sieur then told him to return to the Chateau for certain of the
completed papers, and to bring them without delay, for his further
orders. As the carriage was now directed to be always in readiness for
the Chevalier de Phaffenberg, Louis found no tardiness in transporting
himself back to the Chateau, and thence to the College again.

On his return, he found the surgeons in the invalid chamber,
remonstrating with their patient against seeing his secretary again
for that day. But Ignatius was inflexible, and to prevent encreasing
the evil by further opposition, they withdrew. Louis obeyed the beckon
of his governor to the side of his bed, and there he received his
instructions respecting the papers he had brought. He disposed them
into several packets, and putting them into as many small leather-bags,
sealed them, and addressed them according to his orders.

At a particular hour, he was conducted by Martini to a dungeon-like
cell, in a distant and obscure quarter of the College, where the
Italian introduced him to a grey-headed brother of the order, who had
been entrusted by Ignatius with this part of the business. His office
was to receive, and to bring in succession, the messengers of the
correspondence which Louis held in his hand. The venerable Jesuit told
him, that several were then in waiting, but in separate cells; for no
one was to know of the other, and each were conducted out by different
passages.

Louis remained three hours in his gloomy hall of audience, before he
had seen every body he ought to see, and had delivered to them all
the packets of which they were to be the bearers to some of the most
distant nations in Europe. He gave no further account of the Sieur's
absence, to these foreigners, than that he was suddenly indisposed. An
idea of his danger might have had ruinous effects on the purposes of
this various correspondence.

As the time drew near for his attendance on the Empress, Louis returned
to Ignatius, to receive his further commands. This interview was brief,
but pregnant with matter; and included instructions for a conversation
with another personage, to whom the Imperial Elizabeth would see the
necessity of introducing their young negociator.

Louis had now no reason to complain of want of trust, in those who
commanded his services. The Empress was so impatient to hear his
report, that he found her awaiting him; and his communications were so
satisfactory, that she at once dismissed her worst fears for the Sieur,
and entered into a circumstantial discussion of his message, comparing
its expectations with what had passed between the Emperor and herself
on the last overtures brought by Castanos. She was not the direct
agent to her husband in these affairs; for His Majesty had not the
most distant suspicion of her interference with any of the ostensible
negociators; therefore, all that she appeared to do, was by apparently
accidental remarks; but they were so managed, as very often to decide
a fluctuating question. He had never admitted the Sieur Ignatius
to a personal audience; who, he however, respected as a Jesuit of
talents, employed by the Spanish sovereigns to compromise secretly with
Sinzendorff; the Imperial chancellor. The Emperor usually talked with
the Empress on all that passed between him and Sinzendorff: and she
made ample use of her influence in suggestion, and persuasion towards
the leading objects of the Spanish propositions. Besides the brilliancy
of her ostensible motive, to see her husband be the second _Caesar_ to
close the _gates of Janus_ on mankind! she had two private views, in
gratifying the demands of Spain: to obtain the guarantee of so leading
a power to the _pragmatic sanction_, which would establish her own
descendants, male or female, on the throne of Germany; and to complete
the cession of Philip from the cause of James Stuart, by which her near
kinsman, George of Brunswick, would be more firmly seated on that of
Great Britain.

An active enemy to the first of these projects was then residing at
Vienna, in the person of the widowed Electress of Bavaria. Being
the daughter of the late Emperor Joseph, (who died without a son,)
she believed, if the female line were to inherit, that she and her
posterity had every way more right to the succession than any daughter
of the present Emperor, who was the younger brother of his predecessor,
her father. To avert these claims, the present Emperor, Charles
the Sixth, devised the act of settlement, (called the _pragmatic
sanction_,) on his own female posterity, in default of male issue; and
to this, he was moving every wile of policy, to obtain the guarantee of
the great European states. Fonder of artifice, than of plain dealing,
Charles made promises he never intended to perform; though he hoped by
their means to purchase the acquiescence of his brother monarchs. Spain
had been once attempted in this way; but Philip's resentments against
his former rival were not to be appeased. He joined France in thwarting
all the Emperor's plans. And as he not only withheld his assent to the
proposed act for the Austrian succession, but was actively hostile
to that of the new King of England, the Empress concluded that he
had extended his animosity to her, and was altogether jealous of the
further aggrandizement of the House of Brunswick. But when the Baron
de Ripperda, (whose brilliant wit, and diplomatic magnificence at her
father's court, had been the first object of her youthful admiration,)
when he quitted Holland for Spain, and gained the confidential ear
of its king; then the Spanish cabinet seemed to turn a colder aspect
towards the setting star of the Stuarts; and the hopes of the Empress
settled on the newly-rising minister of Spain.

The same policy which united the friends of the pragmatic sanction with
those of the reigning king of England, brought the supporters of the
Bavarian pretensions into joint interest with all the adversaries of
the house of Brunswick, and consequently into strict friendship with
the intended restorers of the line of James. To keep the negociation
between the sovereigns of Spain and the Empress, from the cognizance
of these two latter parties, now so determinately united, was
indispensible to its ultimate success; for the Emperor was too jealous
of a prince, who had once gained over him a great advantage; and too
personally attached to ancient Austrian prejudices, not to be very
accessible to the diplomatic subtilities of the adverse faction, should
they have timely notice to make the attack.

The Empress expressed herself to this effect; but there were still
some secret measures between herself and Ignatius, which she did not
think expedient to notice to their young confidant; and when she had
explained all that she deemed necessary for the present, she told him
he must go to the apartments of Count Sinzendorff, where that minister
was now expecting him. She drew from her finger a ring that the Count
knew, and which, on being presented by Louis, would be sufficient
assurance that he was visited by the right person.

"But recollect," said she, "the chancellor is ignorant that you are of
more consequence than the mere secretary of the Sieur Ignatius. I told
him your name is Phaffenberg; and take care you do not give him, or
any one else, reason to suspect you have any other."

Louis bowed; and her air of cautionary command, dilating into a smile,
she added, "to-morrow, and every day, attend me here at the same hour,
until perfect recovery restore your guardian to the full performance of
his own duty."

The Empress's description of the situation of the chancellor's
apartments in the palace, was too accurate for her ambassador to
mistake his way; and, without impediment he found himself ushered into
the presence of Count Sinzendorff. He recognized the ring, which the
young secretary respectfully put into his hand, and without preface or
circumlocution, entered at once upon the assassination of Ignatius,
and the consequences to be drawn from the attempt. To detect the
perpetrators was impossible, as the necessity for concealment in all
that related to the negociation of the Sieur, extended to his person;
and to make a stir in search of the ruffians, would only direct the
eyes of their employers, where to dare a second attack.

The chancellor then opened the communications he wished to be
conveyed to Ignatius. They principally consisted of certain demands,
besides that for the pragmatic sanction, which His Imperial Majesty
persisted in making on the King of Spain, before he would propound to
his ministers, what he styled, the very high requisitions from the
Spanish side. The chancellor followed this up, with remarks on his own
difficulty in preparing the minds of some of the most stubborn of these
ministers, whom he could hardly bring to apprehend even the possibility
of such measures being ever proposed to them.

From the plain and well-digested discourse of Count Sinzendorff,
Louis derived a clear idea of the scheme in negociation; which, if
brought fully into effect, did indeed promise universal benefit. In
the constrained confidence of the Sieur, there was always so much
mystery; and in the hurried communications of the Empress, so much
confusion; that, until now, he could only see as afar off, a mass of
anticipated events whose misty obscurity rendered some mostrous and
most indistinct. But now he comprehended, not only the magnificence
of the mutual greatness of Austria and of Spain; but the foundations
of prosperity and peace for Europe, so long threatened with the
interminable miseries of hereditary wars. His soul, devoted to noble
contemplations, was roused to all its wonted ardour by these views;
and, vibrating to the tone of his father's declared motive, which
the chancellor had incidentally quoted; he made some remarks on
the proposed measures, that did not less astonish than please that
consummate statesman.

Count Sinzendorff saw that it was no hireling secretary Ignatius had
dispatched to him. The air and language of Louis were too elevated
to belong to a man born in dependance; and the chancellor read in
the intelligence of his eye, and the peculiar attention of his
countenance, as he respectfully listened to what was said, that he was
still unapprenticed to the mechanism of politics. He felt the soul
of patriotism, but he was not yet aware of the machinery, which, in
this world of artifice must be its body! A few general sentiments of
political virtue, uttered by the Count, elicited its purest principles
from the lips of Louis. His own glowing words had given the tone he
thought he had taken from the chancellor, who, in fact, only admired
the enthusiasm he reflected, and pitied what he admired. "It is _first
love_, amiable youth!" thought he, "which must give place to a more
worldly bride!"

That this singularly noble young man, both in appearance and manner,
should have been introduced to him by the Empress and the Jesuit
Ignatius, as a common secretary, and by the name of Phaffenberg;
(a family, whose folly and extravagance had long ago sent it into
obscurity!) did not so surprise Sinzendorff, as it confirmed his
suspicion, that he saw the son of some great man in this interesting
novice; and his shrewd guesses did not lead him far from the mark. He
smiled inwardly, at the useless deception which the Empress thought
to put upon his penetration; and determined to allow her to believe
he was as blind as she wished. Before he and the object of his doubts
separated, it was fixed, that every night, at an hour before midnight,
the latter should attend in the Chancellor's apartments, to be the
medium of communication between him, Ignatius, and the Empress.

When Louis returned from his long and double embassy, all he had to
impart was listened to without interruption. For when he began his
recital, the Sieur apprised him, that in transactions of this nature,
it was so necessary to recapitulate every word that passed; and as
nearly as possible, describe the manner of saying it, that he would not
confuse his recollection by a single interrupting remark. When Louis
finished speaking, all his guardian said, was--"It is well." and then
bade him return to the Chateau for the remainder of the night.

He had a task to perform there before he slept; and similar ones
would henceforth lengthen his visits to a late hour every evening,
as long as his double duty lasted. He was to register all that was
said in his presence, by the Empress and the Chancellor. And he was
to make duplicates of this diary, into the cypher he had been so long
accustomed to copy; and to understand which, the Sieur now gave him a
key. Every night he was to return to the Chateau, and every morning
make his appearance at the College.

The two following days passed in the same round of duties; but there
was a difference in the third, which made it remarkable to Louis, and
gave a new character to those which succeeded it. He again beheld the
beautiful friend of Elizabeth.

Not having seen her since her first transit across his then cheerless
sky, the starry brightness of that glance only occurred to him
afterwards, like the fading image of a delightful dream. Absorbed in
the great interests which now occupied him, he was thinking of nothing
less than her, when, on entering the _boudoir_ to await the Empress, he
was surprised to see her accustomed chair filled by another lady; and a
lovely girl sitting by her, busily employed on the table. He started,
and the lady, hastily throwing back a lace veil, which shaded her
face as she bent over her companion, discovered to him the beautiful
creature he hardly expected to see again. She apologized for having
permitted her own, and the Arch-Duchess's occupations, to make her
forget the hour in which these rooms ought to be left to his use;
and, taking the Princess's arm, had even passed into the next chamber,
before he could recollect himself so much as to feel that he stood like
an idiot, without having uttered a word of the commonest civility, in
answer to her graceful address. He then flew after her; and spoke, he
knew not what, in explanation of his remissness; all the while walking
by her side in a strange disorder of feelings, till reaching a small
door in almost the farthest apartment, she turned round, and with a
dignified bend of her neck and a dimpled smile, granted him her pardon,
and disappeared with her fair charge.

Louis paused a moment, looking at the closed door through which she had
passed; and then returned to the _boudoir_, with his senses all in a
maze. His heart, which had never beat before at the sight of womankind,
throbbed in his breast almost audibly. Such an eye, as its soft lustre
fell upon him, he had never met before; he felt its rays in his heart.
And then, so finely composed a figure! Such matchless grace in her
shape and snowy arms, as she led the young princess along. And the
golden tresses which mingled with the white veil upon her neck, made
him think of the peerless Helen, whose divine beauties compelled the
admiration of the very empire she destroyed.

Full of these imaginations, the more he thought, the farther did his
mind wander from the business which brought him there:--and, when
the Empress did make her appearance, it was with difficulty that he
recalled his senses to the subject of the interview. In one of her
pauses, she noticed his abstraction. She remarked it to him. A bright
crimson flashed over his face. She repeated her enquiries. Louis was
astonished at his own emotion; but without seeking other excuse, though
with deepening colour, he said, he feared he had behaved rudely to a
lady who had just left that apartment: but he was surprised, at meeting
any but Her Majesty; and he had not yet recovered from his confusion.

Elizabeth bade him describe the lady. To do that, he felt was
impossible; though, on the demand, his ready heart repeated its
pulsations; and looking down, he merely answered, "she was with the
Arch-duchess." The Empress smiled. She now knew whom he had seen;
and by his disorder, had no difficulty in guessing the cause of his
abstraction.

"The lady," returned she, "is the Countess Altheim; to whose care these
apartments are consigned, as my first _lady of the key_. She is also
the governess of my eldest daughter, whom you saw; and whom I wish her
to model after her own graces!"

Louis unconsciously sighed, as he bowed to this information; and
Elizabeth, thinking she understood his meaning, with a smile still
more gracious than the former, added--"she is a widow, though so
young:--and has hitherto loved me too well, to be persuaded from my
service by any one of the numerous solicitors for her hand."

Louis felt another impertinent sigh rising to his lips, but he
smothered it with a gentle effort; saying inwardly--"What is all this
to me!" and made no answer to the Empress, but a second bow. She
immediately passed to the subject of his audience.

In returning to the College, he would not suffer himself to dwell a
moment on the image of the beautiful Countess. But he was not permitted
to keep his wise resolve of dismissing it altogether from his thoughts;
for the bright original found occasions of repeating the impression day
after day.

She sometimes awaited him with preparatory messages from the Empress.
At other times he surprised her and the young Princess at their
studies. But at none of these meetings could she be prevailed on to
linger a moment. When she had to deliver a message, she hastened away
as soon as it was uttered. And when he broke on her accidentally, the
instant he had caught a glimpse of her white arms moving over the lute,
or had heard the trill of her exquisite voice warbling through the
rooms, she would rise in disorder, and hurry from his ardent entreaties
in so sweet a confusion, that it was sure to fix her idea in his mind
till their next rencounter.

Louis felt the truth of the observation, that "The secret to interest,
is to excite curiosity, and never satisfy it." He was ever asking
himself, why the charming Countess, the worshipped of so many hearts,
should be so timid to him? Or rather, why she should thus fly, as
if with aversion, one whose heart was so well prepared to admire
the graces of a mind, which, the Empress had assured him were equal
to those of her matchless person. He had never seen any thing so
beautiful as that person! And in so fair a temple, he could not
doubt, as fair a spirit must dwell. He longed to converse with it; to
understand all its loveliness; and to feel his heart sympathise, as it
was wont to do in holy Lindisfarne, with all the pure intelligence of
woman's mind. It was not of love he thought; for though he respected
the sentiment, hitherto he had never felt its touch; and, as he had
devoted his admiration to all that would take him out of himself, he
had always regarded the winning of a female heart, as but a secondary
object in the aims of his life. "Ah, never," has he often said, "would
I give my _noon of manhood to a myrtle shade_! Woman's love was given
to be the helpmate of man, but his folly makes her the tyrant!" In this
case, as in others, Louis was yet to learn.--How wise is speculation,
how absurd is practice!




CHAP. V.


The Countess was indeed accomplished; and most accomplished in the art
of charming. The noble Cornelia, and the tender Alice, knew nothing of
her science; and of what spirit it was, the heart of their cousin had
yet to prove.

On the day of his first appearance at the palace, she had only to
behold his singularly fine person, to think him the handsomest
young man who had ever entered there. But the fair Altheim was not
particularly attracted by the charms which most pleased in herself; and
she would never have sought a second glance of the graceful secretary,
had she not accidentally attended to a discourse between her imperial
mistress and the chancellor, wherein the latter, (being piqued by a
quotation from Ripperda, which the Empress made, to confute one of his
political arguments;) rather sarcastically gave hints that he suspected
the wounded Jesuit had got something more illustrious in his diplomatic
novice, than he chose to acknowledge. Elizabeth affected to see nothing
peculiarly distinguishing in the manners of the secretary; but when
the chancellor had withdrawn, she let some ambiguous expressions
escape her, in the triumph of having baffled his penetration. These
intimations were not lost on the Countess. And on the day following
that in which she and the Arch-Duchess had retreated from Louis in such
haste, the Empress could not forbear telling her in what an amazement
of admiration she had surprized him; adding, "He is a conquest worth
_more_ than a haughty beauty's _smile_!"

Elizabeth smiled as she said this, but remarked no further. It was
enough for her fair confidant; who, if her soul possessed any passion,
did not scruple to own it was ambition. To gratify this, she had given
her blooming beauties, at the age of seventeen, to the superannuated
Count Altheim; a man of high family and great riches, but who had long
survived every faculty, but that of dotage on any pretty face that
would endure the incense of an habitual idolater of youth and beauty.
At that early age, she had been sent for by the Empress, who loved her,
from her having been the only daughter of the respectable woman who had
been her nurse; and in consequence of which the pretty Otteline had
been brought up as the favourite play-thing of the Princess; but the
gracious Elizabeth soon regarded her with the tenderness of a sister;
and on the death of the venerable mother, embraced the opportunity to
have the companion of her youth brought to Vienna. Otteline de Blaggay
was many years younger than her Imperial mistress, and far transcended
that beautiful Princess in every personal grace. But as the prejudice
in favour of high birth is so great in Austria, that a mis-alliance
is considered as indelible a disgrace, as a moral dishonour; none of
all the illustrious courtiers who contemplated, and sighed for the
possession of the lovely Otteline, ever thought of making her the
sharer of his rank. A thousand gay adventurers pressed forward, to
gratify their passion for beauty, and to excite an interest in their
behalf with the Empress, by making her favourite their wife. But
Otteline knew herself to be despised, though worshipped. And as rank
was all she wanted, to set her in every respect above the women who
envied her charms, and therefore looked with double contempt on her
untitled name, she resolved to marry for rank, and for nothing else.
Within a few months after her arrival, the old Count Altheim became
infatuated with her beauty; and, intoxicated by her smiles, dared
every obloquy to raise her to the station her lofty spirit seemed so
calculated to dignify. The Empress felt the situation of her favourite,
and, having joyfully pronounced her consent; the no less delighted
Otteline gave her hand to the Count in a splendid espousal, at which,
not merely her patroness, but all the Imperial family were present.

While the fond husband lived, his young Countess was the brightest, the
loveliest, the proudest of the court. Elizabeth exulted in the homage
the haughty Austrians were at length obliged to pay her _eleve_ and
country-woman; and to render it more complete, she determined that an
application to the Countess should be the only avenue to her Imperial
favours. But the Count died; and according to the law at Vienna, that
on the death of her husband, the wife loses whatever rank she may
have acquired by her marriage; the Countess Altheim, though a richly
endowed widow, found herself at once thrown back into all her former
insignificance. This reverse was doubly galling, since she had been
on the heights of consideration; and had trod that elevated path with
a step not much less imperial than that of the Empress herself. To be
contemned now, was mortification almost to madness. But the beautiful
mourner had lived too long in courts, to permit her rivals to perceive
the complete victory events had given them over her. Affecting a wish
for retirement after the death of so adoring a husband, she lived
secluded for a time; loftily leaving that world, she was aware, would
have scornfully excluded her: and when the assumption of inconsolable
grief was no longer feasible, Elizabeth appointed her to the high
office of presiding governess over the Arch-Duchess Maria-Theresa. This
afforded her a dignified plea for still abstaining from the assemblies
of the court; though in private parties she sometimes permitted herself
to be seen. Yet this was a rare indulgence;--that the novelty of her
unequalled charms, whenever she did appear, might continue to give her
successive triumphs over the envy of her proud rivals;--and the effect
was ever what she expected. She was then twenty-six, and though in the
meridian of her beauty, she foresaw that the time approached when she
must resign this, her sole sceptre of power, to some younger hand. What
then should she be? She could not endure to dwell upon the answer; and
again turned her views to some elevating alliance. To think of another
Austrian connection, would have been waste of time, and a hopeless
speculation. She must direct her attention to some of the numerous
noblemen from foreign countries, who visited Vienna. This plan was
hardly determined on, before the arrival of the Marquis Santa Cruz gave
the wished-for victim to her ambition in the person of his son Don
Ferdinand d'Osorio.--Young, handsome, susceptible, and of high rank!
It was an opportunity not to be neglected; and a few interviews with
him at the _petits soupes_ of the Baroness Hermanstadt, put to flight
every remembrance of the dove-eyed beauties he had so lately sighed
for in the groves of Italy. Lost in the blaze of her attractions, he
soon lived only in her presence; and drew from her a confession, that
she awaited his father's consent alone to become his bride. But she
was a Protestant, and she was of ignoble birth; two disqualifications,
which the Marquis's bigotry of faith and of ancestry could not be
brought to excuse. In anguish and hope, Ferdinand flew to the feet of
his adored Otteline, and implored her to give him her hand, in spite
of his inexorable father.--She knew the degrading consequence of such
a compliance. She saw the point to which the passions of Ferdinand
were hurrying his reason; and to throw it at once on that dreadful
extremity; and by that phrenzy of despair alarm the Marquis, and compel
him to save the senses of his son, by consenting to the marriage; to do
this, she exasperated the agonies of her lover's mind, by appearing to
regard the proposal for a clandestine union, as an insult from himself.
When she allowed herself to be convinced of the contrary, still her
indignation continued, though directed to a different object; and she
declared, that her wounded honour could never be appeased, nor would
she consent to see Don Ferdinand again, till he should bring her the
Marquis's only adequate apology for the disgrace he had presumed to
attach to her alliance.

Ferdinand departed from her, almost insane; and in that condition
threw himself upon the mercy of his father. But the good Catholic,
and Spanish Grandee, was not to be moved. And the frantic lover,
being denied admittance at the door of his proud mistress, he flew to
unburthen his distracted soul to their mutual friend, the Baroness
Hermanstadt.

The narrative that follows is of more common, than agreeable detail.
The Baroness was one of those women who are a blot on their own sex,
and a blight to all of the other on whom they fix their rapacious
eyes. Abandoned to ostentatious expence, no means were rejected, by
which she could gratify the vanity her own fortune could not supply;
and while her friend looked abroad for an ennobling alliance, to give
her rank, she laid snares for dishonourable engagements, to furnish
her with gold. Her iniquitous proceedings had hitherto been so warily
managed between herself and her dupes, that no one else suspected her
of error.--She was generally received in the first circles of Vienna,
and hence had a wider field from which to select her victims. The
thoughtless expenditure of the son of Santa Cruz, had for some time
tempted her rapacity; and the opportunity presented itself of making
it all her own. She was an elegant woman, and an animated companion;
and soon made the distracted Ferdinand forget the pretended disdain
of managing ambition, in the delusions of practised art and soothing
flattery. Intoxicated with what he believed her generous oblivion of
herself, in voluntarily sacrificing every duty to her newly-avowed
passion for him; he was-only awakened from his trance of vice, by the
information that her husband, a rough Hungarian General, was returning
from his post on the Turkish frontiers. She would gladly have exchanged
this poor and rugged hero, for the soft prodigal, she had bereft of his
better reason; and she made the proposal to him:--To fly with him,
before the Baron could arrive; and that henceforth their fates should
be one. As she clung round him, making the insiduous proffer, a gleam
from his long banished reason seemed to visit him from on high; he
shrunk with horror from an everlasting engagement with such a woman.
Though the slave of her allurements, she was not the mistress of his
soul, and he dared to deny her. Then all her assumed persuasiveness
was cast aside. She insisted on flight, with a vehemence that turned
her passionate love to threatening fury; and closed with holding a
pistol to her head, to extort his assent, or to end her existence. He
wrested the weapon from her hand; and oppressed with his own bitter
consciousness, left her in a storm of frantic upbraidings, to the care
of her confidential maid.

From this disgraceful connection, it was, that the Marquis Santa Cruz
had borne away his son. As soon as the extraordinary disorder of
Ferdinand, and consequent enquiries, had made the Marquis aware of
these circumstances, he saw the necessity of hurrying him away from the
machinations of a wicked woman, too well practised in the ruin of the
youthful mind; and too ready to make the credulous Ferdinand a lasting
prey.

Meanwhile, the disappointed Countess Altheim, foiled by her perfidious
friend and versatile lover, broke with the one, and really disdained
the other. And though she never condescended to enquire about either,
after the double desertion was known to her beyond a doubt; yet she was
not insensible to some feeling of gratified revenge, when she heard
that Ferdinand had abandoned her rival, and left the country.

The Marquis hastened with his remorseful son, to Holland and to
England. But the pangs of his repentance had not struck at the root of
his crime. He mourned the act of guilt, not the empassioned nature
which impelled it. He cursed the hour in which he had ever met with the
Baroness Hermanstadt; but he did not condemn the headlong impetuosity
with which he yielded to every impulse of self-gratification. The only
son of his parents, and heir to immense revenues in both hemispheres,
he had been indulged in every wish, till he believed he had no duty
in life but to enjoy all its blameless pleasures. But when personal
gratification is the principle of existence, the boundary between
innocence and transgression is often invisible. Ferdinand had more than
once trembled on it. He had now overleaped it.--And though racked with
self-abhorrence at what he had done; and hoping, by deeds of penance to
repass it; yet he fostered in his heart the passions which had betrayed
him: and even found a new temptation for their excesses, in the land of
his penitential pilgrimage. By a strange coincidence of fate, while he
was sowing tares in the happy fields of Lindisfarne, Countess Altheim
was preparing a similar attempt on the peace of its darling Louis.

The beautiful Otteline was as widely different from the character of
her false friend, as unsunned snow from the molten lava of Vesuvius.
She sought for nothing in her union with Ferdinand, but the rank he
would bestow on her. His riches and his love were alike indifferent
to her. And when she turned her eyes on the handsome secretary of
Ignatius, she had no other idea in her meditated attack on his heart,
but what aimed at sharing a birthright, which the Empress had assured
her, would exceed her proudest wishes. Notwithstanding her incapability
of loving, and indeed of feeling any emotion but those connected with
her ambition and its disappointments; she was so keen an observer, and
so fine an actress, that he must have had an _Ithuriel_ eye, who could
have distinguished the counterfeit from the real, in her pretensions.

Having made her first advances on Louis, by a retreating manoeuvre,
she perceived that her personal charms had made their intended
impression; and that she had only to produce the graces of her
conversation, to complete the conquest. On subjects of general taste,
she was mistress; and in every department of human knowledge that
belongs to worldly wisdom, she was perfectly informed. If sympathy
did not give her anticipation of her lover's thoughts, self-interest
endowed her with tact to glide into his opinions; and she did this
so adroitly, as to make her echo appear the leading voice:--Her
accomplishments were likewise brought into play; and the Empress did
not disdain to partake the management. Once or twice, she detained the
Arch-dutchess and her governess in the room, to call forth some natural
or acquired charm in the beautiful instructress; and when the blushing
Countess withdrew, Her Majesty usually made some observation on the
inimitable perfections of her character, and the engaging modesty by
which they were so constantly veiled.

In one of these interviews, when Louis was gazing with his soul in
his eyes after the departing steps of the too exquisite Otteline, the
Empress, with a peculiar smile, ejaculated,--"She has lately become
enamoured of politics.--And should she negociate for herself, adieu my
right in her possession!"

Louis felt himself turn pale, but he did not reply.--Though his
Imperial Inquisitor thought his looks were sufficiently expressive,
she was determined to carry away a direct avowal; and with a little
archness, she added, "But you, perhaps, doubt her powers?"

He coloured as he replied: "I believe the Countess Altheim may command
just what she pleases." "Indeed!" cried the Empress, "then you must
not be my minister. If she negociate against me, I see where my
interest would be."

Elizabeth smiled again, and with an expression that Louis could not
resolve into any positive meaning;--but it was unpleasant to him, and
gave him an impression of being played upon. A confused recollection
of the Sieur's exordium against the power of beauty, suddenly occurred
to him; and with rather a more offended air than is often ventured to
an Empress, he said; "believing that the Countess Altheim would always
please to command what is right, I did not suppose her influence could
ever be actuated against the interests of Your Majesty."

The soft colour on Elizabeth's cheek, mounted to a proud crimson.
The words were compliment, but the manner reproof. She regarded the
audacious speaker with a look of astonishment. His eyes were now
directed to the ground. She felt she had been reproved; and by a youth!
a boy! The son of a man, who, if her confidant and coadjutor, she was
also his! and, from circumstances, so much more in her power, than
she in his; that, at any moment she could ground his chariot in the
quicksands; and give him a fall as deep, as that which had sunk for
ever the fortunes of his predecessor, the great Alberoni!--And yet the
son of this man, so perilously placed, so dependant on her will, durst
presume to be offended with an innocent freedom she had condescended
to take with his feelings!--He had dared to imply to her, that she had
trifled with him beneath her dignity; and still he stood before her
with a mien of more true respect, than any she was accustomed to meet
from the most obsequious of her vassals!

With a haughty swelling at her heart, the Imperial Elizabeth ran
through the first of these suggestions, but as she contemplated
the countenance of the speaker, so noble, so modest; she found a
more ingenuous sentiment arise. She had then, for the first time in
her life, beheld the unveiled face of simple truth! the situation
was strange to her; but there was a charm even in the novelty: and
again smiling, but with an air in which all the distance of her rank
was conveyed, she graciously said, "there was something besides
compliment in that speech of your's, de Montemar; but I forgive you."
She stretched out her hand to him, in sign of full pardon; and as he
respectfully touched it with his lip, she added, "you would make a
better counsellor than a courtier; but if you mean to be a statesman,
you must unite both."

He bowed as she turned away; and said to himself, "then I must mean to
be, what I never can be. If the world is not to be governed without the
moral degradation of its governors, my ambition to be a ruler must
follow Orlando's wits to the moon!"

Gracious as the Empress looked and spoke, he yet saw that he had
been on the verge of giving her mortal offence. His Pastor-uncle had
often told him, the atmosphere of courts was cold, in proportion to
their elevation: it was as withering to every honest demonstration
of the heart, as the icy peaks of the glaziers, to the verdure which
would flourish in the vallies! Louis did not then quite believe the
representation; but he now remembered the lesson, and sighed to find it
true.

Musing on the causes and consequences of so unnatural a state of
moral existence, he passed hastily through the galleries. The day
was unusually warm for the season, and the heat of the stoves made
the unventilated air so oppressive, that absorbed in thought, he
unconsciously complied with his bodily feeling; and, with his cap still
in his hand, he allowed his pelisse to fall open from his figure, as
he hastened down the passages. As he turned into an obscure lobby,
by which he avoided the public guard-room, he passed the bottom of a
flight of steps. Two persons were coming out of a door at the top. He
did not observe the circumstance, so profound was his reverie, till he
heard the voice of Wharton exclaiming, "'tis he, by Heaven!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Louis sprang forward; but not to meet
his friend. He disappeared from the passage, at the very instant he
heard the Duke throw himself over the rails of the stair, and call in
louder accents, "De Montemar! De Montemar! Stop, for God's sake! It is
Wharton who calls you!"

But Louis continued to fly, and Wharton to pursue, till the former
abruptly turning through a small postern into the street, darted into
his carriage; which always awaited him at this obscure entrance. It
was just wheeling into the mob of attending equipages, when he beheld
the Duke issue from the gate, and stand gazing around in search of his
faithless friend!

"Faithless, I am not, dear, insulted Wharton!" cried Louis, aloud,
though unheard by him he apostrophised. "But you have seen me desert
you! Fly you, in spite of the sacred adjuration with which you would
have recalled me! Oh, what do you now think of ungrateful de Montemar?"

At that moment he saw the Duke strike his forehead, as in the vexation
of disappointment; and in the next, the turn of the carriage snatched
him from his sight.

Louis now began to arraign his own carelessness, in having erred so
unpardonably against warning, as to permit any abstraction of mind to
divert him from the indispensible concealment of his person. Angry
with himself, and vexed to the soul that his negligent reverie had so
immediately incurred the evil most deprecated by Ignatius, the wormwood
in his heart for a moment distilled over every other object, and with
a bitterness unusual to him, he exclaimed, "Why did I forget that a
man sworn to politics, has immolated body and mind? Neither love nor
friendship, nor the reasoning faculty, are for him. She is his deity,
and must command all his thoughts! Had I properly recollected this
detested creed, coiled like Satan in his serpent-train, I might have
passed through the dust, unnoticed by the erect eyes of Duke Wharton!"

Perhaps, the consciousness that his own nature had caught some of
this abhorrent system of disguise, excited temper, as well as regret,
in this moody exclamation! His soul was naturally brave and frank;
but the mysterious language of the Sieur had touched him with a
kind of superstitious dread on certain points; and he now shrunk
from mentioning this rencontre to any one. He knew it would fill
Ignatius with alarm for their secret; and in the present state of his
slowly-closing wounds, all agitation was dangerous. To name it to the
Empress, might not only re-awaken her suspicions of the Duke, but
excite her to precautions hostile to his safety. Louis thought, and
re-thought over these circumstances; and, as his perturbed feelings
subsided, and gave him clearer judgment, he fully determined on
silence. He flattered himself that no ill could proceed from this
concealment; and while he resolved to be more circumspect in future, he
believed that Wharton was incapable of any act which could implicate
his friend, and might be justly feared. He did not hope that the Duke
could suppose that either now, or on the Danube, he had mistaken any
other person for him. He might have been persuaded to say the mistake
was probable; but Louis could not believe the possibility of his
having ever thought so. For, could any one make him think he had not
seen Wharton on the Danube; that he had not heard his voice calling on
him through the passages of the palace?

"Oh, no," cried he, "there is an identity which never can deceive the
heart! You know that it was Louis de Montemar you saw, that it was
Louis de Montemar who fled you! But a day will come, I trust, when
you may know all; or at least, when you shall see cause to grant to
me, that I could not do otherwise: and that one essential in true
friendship, is sometimes to confide, even against the evidence of our
own senses."

With that romantic faith, Louis had confided in the purity of Wharton's
attachment; and he believed that Wharton would not be less generous to
him. But Louis was enthusiastic, and judged men with that deference
to oral wisdom, which hangs on the precept of virtue, as if it were
virtue's self. He was yet practically ignorant, that a man's taste for
moral excellence might be as exquisite as that which modelled the life
of Addison; and his conduct be as foreign from his theory, as that
which debased the genius of Richard Savage. Hence, Louis formed his
opinion of his fellow-creatures, rather from the sentiments he heard
them utter, than from the actions he was told they performed. He could
not be mistaken in the one; misrepresentation, or misapprehension of
motives, might pervert the other; and thus he more often made a good
sentiment the commentary on a dubious action, than tried the principles
of the sentimentalist, by the rectitude of his conduct. Indeed, he
was not thus liberal, merely from never having supposed the absurdity
of men admiring a principle they are determined never to adopt; but
from an ingenuous pleader in his own breast, whose still small voice
continually whispered to him, "Why should I conceive the worst of
others, when my own conduct so often falls short of my best intentions!
nay, frequently turns so blindly aside, that I wonder to find myself in
the midst of errors, when I most intended to do the perfect right! But
the heart's weakness, the impatience of the will, the frowardness of
the temper! how can I feel these within me, and not judge with charity
of appearances in others?"

"And you, dear Wharton," cried he, "are now called on to judge me
charitably. To believe any thing of me, but that I could treat you
thus, from the dictates of my own will."

How Wharton did judge of the conduct of Louis de Montemar, after events
were to prove. Louis was right in believing him sure of his friend's
identity, both on the Danube and in the palace gallery. But in the
first instance, as he saw him no more, he supposed that some cause must
have hurried him from Vienna; and he did not think it worth while to
press the matter on those who denied it. But now, that he had not only
seen him again, but seen him fly his sight and his voice! Here indeed,
Wharton could hardly credit his senses. And he was still standing
in the porch, gazing after the various passing carriages, when the
companion he had broken from in his pursuit, rejoined him.

He enquired of the Duke, who the person could be, he was so eager to
overtake; and remarking on the oddity of so determined an avoidance,
exclaimed, "He must have been gone in an instant; for though I heard
your exclamation, I never saw to whom it was made."

"Then I have probably been racing after a ghost," replied Wharton,
stifling his chagrin under a gay laugh; "but if it have aught of
mother-earth about its airy sides, I will grapple with it yet."

His companion replied in the same strain, observing, that had it not
been for the over-topping figure of the Duke, he might have had a
glimpse of the nimble-footed apparition. But soon observing that the
curved brow of Wharton did not well agree with the merriment on his
lip, the gentleman looked more serious, and again asked the name of
the fugitive. Perceiving that his companion had not attended to the
words of his exclamation, whatever he had done to its sound, the Duke
carelessly answered, "It matters not; he is only a scape-goat, with
more sins on his foolish head than he thinks of!"

"But his flight vexes you?"

"Because he is so good as to bear away my sins on his pate, and I am
not in a humour to be tired of their company."

"He is your confessor then, and was flying from his duty?"

"You have it," returned the Duke, in a low whisper; "and for my
conscience's sake, without further comment, let us allow him to go to
the devil!" The gentleman shook his head incredulously; but added,
laughing, "I am too good a catholic to pry into mysteries, sacred or
profane." And Wharton, seeing he suspected some affair of gallantry,
with a glance to corroborate the idea, laughed also, and passed to
another subject.




CHAP. VI.


Whether Duke Wharton disdained to mention again the name of the friend
who had unquestionably fled him, or how it happened that no notice
transpired of this second rencontre, Louis could not determine; but
as several days passed without receiving any intimation of it at the
palace, he hoped it was buried in the mind of the Duke; and that only
between themselves it would hereafter be mentioned.

The Sieur was still a prisoner in his cell. The more eager he became to
resume his diplomatic duties, the more his recovery was retarded. Twice
in the course of a fortnight, the anxiety of his mind had inflamed his
wounds to jeopardy. Louis said every thing that cheering anticipations
could devise, to assuage this impatience. But his own perseverance
in his double, nay treble duty, at the college, the palace, and the
chateau, did most to satisfy the Sieur, by proving that he had not
employed an inefficient agent.

Couriers arrived, and were dispatched, with propositions and
acquiescences, which every time brought the grand object nearer to a
close; and Louis's encreasing labours were rewarded every day by the
sunny smiles of the bewitching Otteline. The Empress seemed to have
forgotten what had passed between herself and the young secretary,
respecting her; and the favourite herself, as if unconscious of having
been referred to, continued to him those ineffable attentions of eye
and ear, which, without a word, are the most eloquent language of the
soul. He saw her beautiful, had witnessed her accomplished; from the
Empress he heard of her endearing virtues; and under such impressions
he hourly felt the influence of her magnetic looks, of the gently
struggling sighs which were breathed near him, as she bent at his side,
to perform any little task appointed by her smiling mistress.

He had conceived a high idea of the virtuous female character, from
his sweet cousins, the companions of his youth; and loving them with
a brother's pride, whenever the image of a more exclusive attachment
would obtrude itself upon his fancy, it always arrayed itself in a
form beauteous as theirs; and united all their endearing qualities in
the visionary claimant on his heart. But amongst the daughters of peer
or commoner, who added to the winter festivities of Morewick-hall, or
welcomed bright summer on the rocks of Lindisfarne, no such miracle
of a romantic brain ever presented itself. Many of them were fair,
amiable, and engaging; but all were inferior in some indispensible
grace, to the noble Cornelia or gentle Alice: and when those charming
sisters continued to rally him on his invulnerable heart, he would
plead guilty to the charge; declaring it was all divided between
fraternal love for them, and, he trusted, some future friendship with a
brother mind of his own sex.

The month he passed in the highlands of Scotland, made him believe
that he had found this treasure in the accomplished Wharton. The
Duke courted his confidence. And from one so full of every elevated
sentiment, of every enchanting gaiety, of every demonstration of
regard, could he withhold it? No; he loved him, as he was afterwards
too well inclined to adore the resistless Otteline, with all his
imagination, all the ardour of restrainless enthusiasm.

His _beau ideal_ of the female form was far surpassed by what he saw in
his first interview with the Countess Altheim; and the image of perfect
beauty being once impressed on his senses, it was easy to stamp belief
on every shew of its intellectual loveliness. At first, he regarded
her faultless lineaments, with little more than the same delighted
taste with which he used to gaze on the admirable forms from Italy,
which embellished the galleries of Bamborough. But when those eyes, so
beautiful in themselves, were turned on him with a glance that conveyed
her soul to his, then the ethereal fire seemed to have shot from heaven
on the fair statue, and he felt its electricity in every vein.

One morning, after the Empress had retired from the saloon, Louis
remained, by her orders, to make minutes of some particulars in
their discussion. The Countess Altheim sat near him, awaiting the
memorandum she was to convey to her mistress. He pursued his task with
a diligence, neither his employer, nor her favourite desired; but he
began to tremble on meeting the eyes which now so kindly beamed on
him; and, inexplicably, (as were the feelings with which he enjoyed
and dreaded their powerful appeals to his sensibility,) he shrunk with
alarm at the most distant whisper of his heart, that _now he loved_!

While he still sat, busily writing, with his eyes rivetted to the
paper; and the fair Otteline's on him, with a look that was almost
indignant at his perverse industry; the door opened, and a lady, in
deep mourning, and half fainting, was supported into the room by an
attendant of the same sex. The Countess was transfixed to her seat.
But at sight of a woman in such a state, Louis forgot at once the
_Imperial boudoir_ and his own secret visits there, and hastened to her
assistance. The Countess recovered her presence of mind in the same
instant, and approached the invalid; but she had glanced her eyes on
Louis as he drew near, and had already accepted the use of his arm.
Between him and the other lady she was conducted to a sofa. In a voice
of profound respect, but with evident vexation, the Countess enquired
how her Imperial Highness had been affected, and how those apartments
were so fortunate as to be honoured by her presence? The attendant lady
answered for her mistress, who still leaned her head on the shoulder of
Louis, that she was returning from a visit to the Arch-duchess Maria
Theresa, when becoming suddenly faint, she turned into the Altheim
gallery, in hopes of meeting the Countess, and obtaining some _eau de
Cologne_.

The anticipated restorative was immediately produced; and the Princess,
having taken some, soon after re-opened her eyes; and relinquished her
hold on her respectful supporter. Her lady-attendant and the Countess
vied with each other in felicitations on her recovery; and while the
latter was pressing the use of several pungent essences, Louis, who
hoped his assistance had passed unnoticed, was gliding out of the room:
but the still languid invalid caught a glimpse of his retreating
figure, and abruptly interrupting the Countess, requested her to call
her friend back, as she wished to thank him for his services.

Otteline obeyed; though he saw by her altered countenance, it was
with reluctance; however, he turned to the soft summons of her voice,
and approached the sofa with a modest bow. The Princess directed her
large dark eyes upon the figure and face of Louis; both of which
surprised her, as they were strange to the court, and yet possessed
_un air distingue_ too pre-eminent, she was sure, to belong to any man
attending there in a dependant quality.

"Sir," said she, "your politeness has been very useful to me; and I
desire to know to whom I am obliged."

He bowed, but it was in confusion.--He felt that his tongue would
blister, in uttering the first falsehood, he had even implied, in his
life. Supposing that this disordered silence arose from a flattering
awe of herself, Her Highness turned with a smile to the Countess, and
demanded of her, the name of her friend.

"The Chevalier de Phaffenberg," replied the favourite with a rising
colour.

"Phaffenberg!" repeated the Princess, "I thought that noble family was
extinct.--Of which of the brothers, Ernest or Rudolph, is he the son?"

Her eyes addressed the question to Louis; but his confusion encreased,
and he did not look up to meet them. He even made a step towards the
door; so incapable was he of supporting the representation of the
Countess, by any direct deception from his own lips. She did not
observe his changing complexion in vain; and bending to the illustrious
questioner, whispered something in her ear. Her Highness more than
smiled as she listened; she laughed, and nodded her head in sign that
she understood her; then turning to Louis, again addressed him.

"Chevalier, I will not detain you longer. Your politeness would
honour the best blood in Germany; and I shall be happy in having an
opportunity of proving that I think so. You know where to find me, and
may any day call upon my best power to do you service."

Grateful for being released from farther enquiries, Louis bowed again
respectfully to the Princess, but still in silence, and hastened from
the apartment.

On his return to the Sieur, he refrained from chafing his present
anxious state, by setting him on the rack to guess who this lady might
be, who had so unluckily surprised his secretary in the Empress's
_boudoir_; and whether the accident would be productive of vexation to
their proceedings, or die away, a mere indifferent circumstance. On
the illustrious invalid herself, Louis would not have cast a second
thought, after he had rendered the assistance due to her sex and her
indisposition: but his gratitude towards the prompt attention, or
rather intuitive knowledge of his feelings, evinced by the Countess,
kept the whole scene in his mind during the night; and filled him with
impatience for the morning, when he might, silently at least, intimate
to her some perception of the gratefulness which possessed him.

He went earlier than usual to the palace, on the succeeding day, both
to make his apology to the Empress for having left her memorandum
unfinished; and in hopes of having a few minutes, in which to imply
to the amiable favourite, the sentiment with which her goodness had
inspired him. But it could only be implied generally; to particularize
the obligation, would be to betray that he was other than the Chevalier
Phaffenberg: then why did he wish to find her alone? He had no
distinct apprehension, why this hope speeded him forward; only, he
certainly felt a warmth in his bosom, while meditating on the past
scene, more congenial to his nature, than all the raptures her various
graces had before awakened. The promptitude with which she gave his
supposed name, and the delicacy with which she had perceived his
repugnance to answer the Princess, and had screened him from further
interrogation; appeared to him a testimony of quick interest in his
feelings, a reading of his mind, a sympathy with its thoughts, that
demanded his utmost gratitude:--but it had obtained something more. He
sighed as he approached the palace, and said to himself, "Such kindness
speaks to me of home; of dear, distant Lindisfarne,

    "Where heart met heart, reciprocally soft,
    Each other's pillow, to repose divine!"

As he wished, he found. The lovely Otteline was alone, but in a mood
of unusual pensiveness.--She was leaning her head upon her arm, when
he entered; and there was a flush about her beautiful eyes, as if she
had been weeping. She started on seeing him, and rising hastily, as if
to disguise the chagrin which hung on her brow, said two or three gay
words of welcome.

The discordant expressions in her face did not escape the watchful eye
of growing passion. He ventured to utter a fear, that she was not well;
or that something had happened to disturb her tranquillity.

"Nothing," replied she.

He looked incredulous; and she added with a smile, and a sigh,
"Chevalier, if you would preserve your quiet, never enquire into the
caprices of a woman."

"Then it is the caprice of some woman, which now disturbs yours?"
exclaimed he, "Is it possible that the Empress can have given pain to
one she so entirely loves?" "Not the Empress," replied the Countess
eagerly, as if in haste to exonerate her benefactress; "she is all
graciousness. But the Electress of Bavaria! She you so unfortunately
assisted yesterday in this room; it is from her, that I have met with
insult."

"Insult!" re-echoed Louis, "Impossible to you!"

"I wish it were so," replied the Countess; "but many causes make me an
object of envy to that malicious Princess; and now she has triumphed."

"Again, I must say, impossible!" cried he, "for how can she, or any
woman, triumph over the Countess Altheim?--Your virtues----"

"They are my own," interrupted she, casting down her eyes; "but my
reputation is not; and yesterday put that into her power."

Some apprehension of what the Countess would not add, gleamed upon her
auditor. "How?--Why?" cried he.

She looked up in graceful disorder, and evidently assuming vivacity,
said with a sportive smile, "Chevalier, you are alarmed! But, indeed,
it is without reason.--Believe it, my caprice, if you like; and let us
dismiss the subject! It is doubling vexation to impart it."

This generous sentiment excited him the more to persevere in knowing
the cause of her ill-disguised distress; and with encreased earnestness
he conjured her, only to satisfy him on what she meant by saying, that
yesterday had put her reputation in the power of the Electress of
Bavaria?

With mingled seriousness and badinage, the Countess attempted to put
him from his question; but it was done in a way rather to stimulate,
than to allay his suspicion that he was concerned in her vexation; and
therefore, he thought himself bound in honour, as he was impelled by
his heart, to press an explanation.

"I was a weak creature," returned she, "to drop any thing of all this
folly to you; for, indeed, you will think it nonsense when you hear
it!--Only a woman's delicacy is so very sensitive."

"Try me," replied Louis, forcing an answering smile.

"Then be the consequence on your own obstinate head!" said she, with a
glance of tender archness; but immediately casting down her eyes, as if
she feared they had told too much; in the same gay tone she continued.

"On my mentioning to my Imperial mistress, the mal-a-propos
indisposition of the Electress of Bavaria, Her Majesty commanded me
to go the same night, and make the Electress a visit of enquiries. I
found Her Highness without trace of illness, in her customary violent
spirits, and eager to seize on any new subject for mirth. I had hardly
delivered my message, before she began to rally me on your account;
and asked so many questions respecting the object of your presence in
my apartments; and, indeed, about your family and views in life, that I
absolutely was lost in confusion."

The Countess paused for Louis's reply; but he was incapable of making
one; and only answered her kindled cheeks, with a crimson deeper than
her own. She had glanced on his countenance, and in softer accents
resumed.

"I might have extricated myself from the volatile Electress, had not my
embarrassment been instantly observed by that mischievous Duke Wharton;
who stood by laughing all the time, and prompting his only too well
inclined mistress."

A new apprehension shot into the mind of Louis; and instinctively
keeping his eyes directed to the floor, he said, with a half smile,
"and what did Duke Wharton prompt?"

Had he ventured one glance upward, he would have seen the eyes of
the Countess rivetted upon every feature of his face, with a steady
investigation of what they might betray; while the managed tones of her
voice spoke only the accents of half discovered tenderness; or, more
often, the apparent assumption of a gay contempt of the raillery she
described.

"He was alone with the Electress, when I was announced;" replied
she, "and that gave Her Highness a hint to begin my persecution, by
affecting to whisper him, that my intrusion would tell no tales, as she
had surprised me that very morning _tete a tete_ with----I will not
repeat the silly names of gallantry she called you; but they excited
the curiosity of the Duke: and then she described your person as
accurately as if she had been a sculptor. As her Highness proceeded in
her details, I thought Wharton had lost his wits; and when she summed
up her account, with naming you as the Chevalier de Phaffenberg, he
fell into a convulsion of laughter that amazed her as well as myself.

"Then began such cross questionings and remarks; such banter from the
Duke; such broad surmise from the Electress; that, as I would not
betray the secret of my Imperial mistress, by acknowledging your visits
are to her, (for visits, Duke Wharton has discovered them to be!) I was
obliged to assent to Her Highness's jeering insinuations in another
quarter.

"At first I combated her charge," added the Countess, perceiving
something in the countenance of Louis, that partook more of rising
displeasure, than of gratified emotion; "I attempted to speak of your
presence having been merely accidental; but Duke Wharton, with a sly
laugh exclaimed, _I am a star-gazer, Lady; and know that fate, not
chance, guides this son of Latona, by noon-tide, and the glimpse of the
moon, to a certain palace!--But what his errand is, I am too discreet
to whisper._"

Convinced that Wharton had, indeed, recognised him in the Electress's
description; and, indignant that the friend, from whom he expected
nothing but generosity, should thus play with a situation he must see
was meant to be concealed; Louis replied with resentful scorn. "But you
treated such light impertinence, with the disdain it merited?"

"I tried to do so," returned she, seeming to relapse into painful
seriousness; "but the raillery of the Duke, and the knowledge he shewed
of your movements, alarmed me for the secret of the Empress; and then
the cruel alternative! the Electress casting all those visits to my
account, with insinuations----I cannot speak them."

Her eye had caught the flashing light of her auditor's, and abruptly
stopping, she covered her face with her hands. He stood motionless
with indignation. At last forcing words from his quivering lip, he
exclaimed; "Madam, I conjure you, tell me how the Electress, how Duke
Wharton, could dare to couple your reputation and my presence with
slander! and at all hazards I will disprove it."

"Oh, no;" returned she, "you must not disprove, what duty to my
Imperial mistress would not allow me to deny."

Louis did not believe he had heard her distinctly,--he told her so. But
she repeated what she had said; assuring him, with encreased agitation,
that where she so entirely loved, as she did the Empress, her life was
the least sacrifice she would make to preserve her interests. He gazed
on her with doubtful admiration.

"But to be silent at an aspersion on your fair name! that, Madam,"
cried he, "can never be a duty in your sex. A man may redeem himself
from obloquy, a woman never can! and, if I am implicated in sullying
your honour, I repeat again, I will disprove the slander at the peril
of my life."

"That can only be done between man and man;" said the Countess, in a
collected voice; though inwardly alarmed for the consequence of a duel
between her lover and the Duke. "And here the provocation came from the
opposite sex. Duke Wharton merely amused himself with my confusion,
after the Electress had presumed to make her charge. But were it
otherwise, a violent assertion of my honour is beyond your power. Your
life, Chevalier," added she, raising her eyes to his face, "is your own
to give! but not the safety of the Sieur Ignatius; not the honour of
the Baron de Ripperda; not the future happiness, public and private, of
the Empress Elizabeth! These, and the other momentous interests you are
so well aware of, all depend upon keeping secret from the Electress
of Bavaria and her counsellors, the purport of your visits to these
apartments. You could be admitted but for one of two reasons: to me,
or to the Empress. And when hardly pressed by Her Highness last night;
to avoid the treason of betraying my mistress, I was obliged,----" she
turned away her blushing face as she added, "not merely, not to deny,
but to sanction the suspicion, which caused the tears in which you
surprised me."

Louis stood paralyzed at this last disclosure. But when he saw that
tears flowed afresh from her eyes, and streamed down her flushed
cheeks, as she moved from him to leave the room; he flew towards her,
and catching her by the gown, implored her, in an agitated voice, to
stop and hear him. She turned on him with a look of gentle reproach, of
dissolving tenderness, that bereft him at once of all consideration;
and what he said, what he avowed, he knew not, till he found her hand
clasped to his lips, and heard her say--"After this, I need not blush
to turn my eyes on the only way that can now redeem my name!" She spoke
with an enchanting smile, and added, "It will disprove the slanderous
part of our adversary's accusation, without betraying our cause; or
risking a life, perhaps too precious to me!"

Before he could reply, she heard the steps of Elizabeth in the
adjoining chamber; and sliding her hand from his impassioned grasp,
disappeared through the conservatory. He was in so much agitation when
the Empress entered, that she perceived it; and guessing the cause, did
not notice it; but, wishing her favourite full success in this her own
peculiar affair, she dismissed that of politics in a very few words;
and graciously received Louis's excuse for the unfinished minutes
of the day before. As he proceeded to the Chateau, where he was to
complete some transcripts before he returned to the College he tried
to think on what had passed, but all within him was in tumult. The
hours of his labour, and of his meditation, were the same; he could not
tranquillize the strange whirlwind of emotions which raged in his mind.
He recalled, again and again, before the tribunal of his judgment, the
particulars of the scene which had just passed; but they appeared in
such broken apparitions, that he could reduce nothing to certainty,
nothing on which he could lay his hand, and say, "It is so."

At one moment, indignation fired him against the part Duke Wharton had
taken in it; and, in the next, he arraigned the wayward fate, which had
compelled him to merit all the Duke's resentment, by his own apparently
insulting conduct in the palace gallery.--Then his imagination, all
in a blaze, ran over the celestial charms of the exquisite creature,
whose unreceding hand he had pressed to his lips--to his heart! He felt
her eye-beams still agitating its inmost recesses; but he did not feel
that heart quite consent to his often-repeated exclamation--"She loves
me--and I am happy!" He did not feel that instant union of spirits;
that ineffable communion of heart with heart, and soul with soul, which
he had ever believed the pledge of mutual love:--That mystery of the
soul, which, even in earth, asserts its immortal nature! The beautiful
Otteline was still a beautiful surface to him; an idol to be adored.
But he found not that sense of perfect sympathy, shooting from her dear
presence through all his being, which would make him cry aloud, "I love
her, and her alone!"

Dissatisfied with himself for this fastidiousness, when he ought to
have been all transport, he turned to the hour of meeting the Sieur,
with the feelings of a man in a dream, from which he was doubtful that
he would not be glad to awake.




CHAPTER VII.


When Louis entered the cloister which led to the Sieur's apartment, he
met Martini hurrying towards him.

"Well arrived, Signor!" cried he, "I was coming to the Chateau in quest
of you. There is a noble bustle in my master's chamber."

"By your countenance, no ill news?" said Louis, though not
unapprehensive that some mischievous consequence had transpired from
his unfortunate surprisal by the Electress of Bavaria.

"Not that I know of," cried Martini; "but a little motion more than
ordinary always makes me merry. I love stirring, gloriously! And my
master and a _booted-and-spurred_ have been at high words these two
hours." With nothing so much in his mind, as some anticipated exposure
from the malice of the Electress, Louis proceeded to the chamber with
a more eager step than inclination. He found the Sieur on his couch,
with the table before him spread with opened packets, and a person
standing beside him in the dress of a courier. At some distance stood
two other travellers. The courier was talking in Italian with great
earnestness. Ignatius listened with his usual lofty attention: but when
his vigilant eye caught the figure of Louis advancing from behind a
dark curtain which divided the apartment, he put up his hand with an
air of authority to the speaker, who instantly became silent.

"Louis," said the Sieur, addressing his pupil in German, "here is news
from Madrid, to raise me from the tomb; had the poniards of my enemies
been keen enough to have laid me there!--France, whose bonds were so
ruinously dear to the heart of the King of Spain, has cut the cord
herself; and, by a stroke of insult, for which even his partiality
cannot find an excuse."

Louis's heart was lightened of the apprehensions with which he had
entered; and, with glad congratulations, reflected the unusual
animation which shone in the eyes of Ignatius. The Sieur then ordered
the courier to retire with Martini, who would take care of him, until
he could see him again. The other two travellers also obeyed the
beckon of his hand; and in Spanish, he directed them likewise, to put
themselves under the protection of the Italian valet.

The room being left to the statesman and his secretary, the Sieur,
with a less reserved air, motioned Louis to approach him; and when
they were seated, the former opened a circumstantial detail of what
had occasioned this abrupt rupture between the courts of Versailles
and Saint Ildefonso. During the late regency of the Duke of Orleans,
a treaty of marriage had been entered into between the young King of
France, Louis XV. and Philip's daughter the Infanta Maria-Anna, then
a mere child. According to the custom of the times, she was sent to
Paris, to receive an education befitting the future bride of a French
Monarch; and, at a certain age she was to be solemnly affianced. On the
death of the Duke of Orleans, and the promotion of the Duke of Bourbon
to the functions of prime-minister, the cabinet of France seemed to
change its measures with regard to Spain; at least encroachments
were made, which aroused the suspicions of Philip's Queen; and she
tried to awaken the jealousy of her husband against the new minister.
Attached to the house from whence he sprung, and inclined to put the
best construction on all its actions, it was no easy task to make the
royal grandson of Louis the Fourteenth comprehend that the Duke of
Bourbon never considered the interest of Spain in his policy. Some
transactions, more than dubious in their principle and tendency, at
last made King Philip allow a possibility that he might confide too
implicitly in his French relations; and, after much argument from the
Baron Ripperda, and more entreaty from his Queen, he was at length
persuaded to counterpoise the self-aggrandising spirit they had
detected, by commencing a secret negociation with Austria. Still,
however, habitual partiality to his native country hung about the heart
of Philip, and caused great uneasiness in the minds of the Queen and
the Baron, under whose auspices the mysterious embassy set forth. As
the negociation rapidly proceeded, the King often dropped hints on the
consequences of precipitancy; and frequently filled them with alarm,
lest he should at last refuse his royal sanction to the completion of
their labours, and so involve themselves and their cause in utter
infamy.

The Duke of Bourbon was indeed actuated by different principles, both
political and personal, from those which had impelled the Duke of
Orleans to propose new bonds of alliance between the royal families
of France and Spain. He disliked the Spanish marriage altogether;
and, besides so many years must elapse before the Infanta could be of
age for the espousals; and the health of the anticipated bridegroom
was so precarious, it seemed no improbability that his death, in
the mean-while, might transfer the royal succession to the house of
Orleans. This was an aggrandisement of that ambitious family, which,
the no less ambitious Duke of Bourbon could not contemplate with
patience; and at this juncture Duke Wharton appeared at his elbow, as
if conjured there on purpose to set the two great heads of the House of
Bourbon at lasting enmity. He suspected that something clandestine was
going on between the courts of Spain and Austria; and he left Vienna
for Paris, a few days after his rencontre with Louis de Montemar on the
Danube. He revealed to the Duke of Bourbon all that he had discovered;
and urged him to save his branch of the royal stock, from being
over-topped by that of Orleans or of Spain; by immediately adopting an
entire new policy from that of his predecessor. As a first movement,
he proposed a marriage for the young King with some Princess of
maturer years than the Spanish Infanta. Bourbon readily embraced this
suggestion, which had been some time floating in his own mind. And,
on the two Dukes consulting who this Princess should be, (each having
his own particular reasons), their choice fell on Maria, the daughter
of Stanislaus Letzinsky, the ex-king of Poland. Wharton undertook to
prepare the mind of His Majesty to accept the alternative; and in the
interview, he found that the docile Louis was easily prevailed on to
exchange a bride still in the school-room, for a blooming young woman,
full of accomplishments and graces.

The views of Wharton in this manoeuvre, were still directed to his
favourite project of reinstating the Stuarts. At present, France, and
Spain, and Austria, were all equally estranged from their cause. By
creating a rupture between the two former powers, he divided their
interests; implicated their allies; and necessarily threw France
again into the scale of the Stuart and Bavarian claims. Philip had
declared himself openly for George of Brunswick; and was on the point
of signing the pragmatic sanction; this Wharton knew: and by mixing
the adversaries of the latter scheme of succession, with the political
rivals of England, he returned to Vienna with a promised accession to
his party, that made him omnipotent in the Bavarian councils.

To prevent any opposition to the proposed alliance, from the
remonstrances of Spain, as soon as the Duke of Wharton had left Paris,
(which he did with the negligent air of a mere visitor to the widowed
Queen at St. Germain's;) the Duke of Bourbon pursued the advantage that
nobleman had gained for him, and persuaded the King to send the Infanta
back to Madrid without any previous notice to her royal parents. She
was accompanied by a lady of honour, and an ecclesiastic of high
dignity, to be her protectors on the way; and to deliver a suitable
apology on the urgency of the case, to the King and Queen of Spain.
When the abbot and his young charge were so unexpectedly announced to
the presence of the royal pair, the good priest was too much agitated,
to fulfil his instructions with the diplomatic dignity he was enjoined.
He fell at once on his knees, and declared his errand in confusion and
anguish of spirit. The astonishment and grief of Philip shewed itself
in silence and tears; but the mortification of his Queen burst into
rage and invective. When the abbot offered the letters of explanation,
she dashed them out of his hand; and tearing the picture of Louis the
Fifteenth from her bracelet, trampled it under her feet. All now was
uproar. The French ambassador, and every French consul were ordered to
depart the Spanish territories without delay; and when Philip did find
words to express his sense of the injury he had received from the hand
he most trusted, he declared he never would be reconciled to France,
till the Duke of Bourbon should repair to Madrid and ask his pardon on
his knees. "Hah!" cried the Queen, "It shall not be long, before that
French cyclops finds the arrows of more than one King in his eye!" And,
to make good her threat, she immediately dispatched a trusty messenger
to Ignatius; giving him full powers to relinquish all the contested
points which had retarded the negociation; and at any sacrifice to
conclude a marriage between her son Don Carlos, and the Arch-duchess
Maria-Theresa, the presumptive heiress to the Imperial Crown. Some
other instructions, dear to the policy of Ripperda, were added; which,
if brought to bear, would give the preponderance of power, still more
to Spain and Austria; and place the French, where she had dashed the
portrait of their Monarch, at her feet.

Louis de Montemar passed several hours in close conference with the
Sieur Ignatius on these events; on the circumstances which led to them,
(though the share Wharton had in the leading movement was not then
known;) on the consequent instructions from the Spanish sovereigns; and
in settling how much of the whole, Louis was to declare to the Empress
and her minister, in making the commanded concessions, so as to appear
rather to give than to concede.

"You must manage the preliminaries to-night with Sinzendorf," said
the Sieur, "But to-morrow, whether it be to return on my litter or in
my hearse, I will see the Empress myself.--When the triumphal arch is
ready," added he, with one of those smiles, which visited his dark
countenance like the shooting of a star; "the wounded hero is unworthy
its honours, that will not venture his life to pass through!"

Louis bowed his assent to the Sieur's observation, with a smile bright
as his own; and, soon after, the College bell reminded him that the
time of his audience with the Chancellor drew near. On his rising
to obey its summons, Ignatius looked up from some letters he was
writing, and told him to rejoin him in that chamber the next morning
by day-break. "To-morrow," added he, "will epitomise the history
of Europe for many a future year; and be the deciding epoch of your
destiny."

The usual time of Louis's visit to the Chancellor Sinzendorf was an
hour before midnight; immediately after His Excellency had left the
card-table of the Emperor. And, as from the intricacy of his new
communications with the minister, Louis's present conference was much
longer than ordinary, it was an hour beyond midnight before he left the
Chancellor's apartments.

Hurrying along, to get out of the interior galleries of the palace at
so unseasonable an hour, at an abrupt turning into the large lighted
rotunda where most of the passages terminated, he ran violently against
a person wrapped in a splendid pelisse. He looked up, to apologize,
and beheld Duke Wharton. Louis sprang from the side of the Duke, as
if struck back by electricity: but Wharton grasped his arm. With
an averted face, and a heart yearning to embrace the friend, whose
presence, and whose touch, obliterated all remembrance of resentment,
Louis made another ineffectual struggle to break away; but the Duke, in
a gaily affectionate voice, exclaimed,--"I have clutched you, Chevalier
Phaffenberg! and if you were Chevalier Proteus himself, you should not
elude these ten fingers!" As he spoke, he threw his other arm round the
waist of his friend, and seized his opposite arm also.

"Release me, Duke Wharton!" cried Louis, fully remembering his
double promise to Ignatius and to the Empress, and striving to
recall the circumstances at the Electress's, which had excited his
indignation:--"This is a liberty----"

"That is nothing between friends," interrupted the Duke, in the same
happy tone; "but if we are enemies, I am too old a soldier to release
the prisoner, who may only want to cut my throat!"

"Duke Wharton!" returned Louis, fearful of being subdued by accents
so eloquent of former confidence; "when you see I would avoid you,
this detention is at least ungenerous. By the friendship you claim,
and you have; no longer withhold me! one day I will thank you for your
forbearance."

"You would thank me for that, to which I make no pretensions! In this
life of hard knocks, neither broken heads nor broken hearts can be
healed by the promise of an unction. And therefore excuse me, if I do
not forbear seizing the present sweetener of the wormwood you cast at
me a week or two ago in these passages!"

Louis struggled with his subdued heart, and sighed convulsively, as he
unconsciously rested in the arms that held him prisoner.

"You have my creed of defence, in this selfish world!" resumed the
Duke, "and so, my dear de Montemar, come with me, and whatever may be
your secret services here, they shall be as safe in my breast as in
your own."

With a gasping breath, Louis declared he must not remain with him
another moment.

"What then, your Pastor-Uncle fears me, even here. He fears the lion,
when his lamb is among wolves! I tell you what Louis,--there is more
in my heart towards you, than you will believe, or may deserve! But, I
repeat, come with me, and you shall have that heart on the table!"

Happy to exonerate his venerable uncle, Louis impetuously declared
that his interdict was withdrawn; but that other motives, not then to
be explained, rendered a temporary estrangement as compulsory as ever.
Wharton exulted in this amnesty from Mr. Athelstone; and urged it, with
every argument and device in his magic circlet. He was prevailing,
vehement, and gaily reproachful; but, as he persevered in all beyond
the usual measure of patience, Louis could not but at last feel such
constancy very like persecution; and very unlike what he should have
anticipated from the free spirit of the Duke. "But," whispered a
monitor within him, "was the Duke's wanton sport with your concealment,
when he recognised you, even under a false name, in the discourse at
the Electress's; was it consistent with belief in his candour? With his
present professions of attachment?"

As Louis stood in his trammelling arms, and with a downward face
thought of these things, he became displeased; and, with a firm air,
repeated his request to be released. The Duke persisted to hold him
fast, with some gay badinage on the coil of the crested dragon; but
Louis, determined to be no longer put from his duty, said, even
sternly,--"Duke Wharton, let me go? This compulsion is insufferable, I
will not be detained."

"De Montemar," returned the Duke, in a solemn voice, immediately
releasing one arm, while he still held the other; "I have wrestled
thus long with your caprice, to shew you that I had forbearance; but I
now read your changeful heart: go where it leads you. I once thought
it was devoted to friendship, and to noble sacrifice! But," added he,
after a short pause, and with a disdainful smile, "you are not what
you were--you cling to the foot of the ladder, I believed you even too
proud to mount,--and so I bid you farewell!"

As he spoke, he relaxed his hand from the grasp he held of Louis's arm,
and with a smothered sigh, which he sought to hide under a cough, he
turned hastily across the corridor. Louis's heart smote him.

"I have been selfish and arrogant! I have been accessible to ill
impressions; and, even now, to suspicions of the motives of him, I once
so devoutly honoured.--Alas!" said he, to himself, "I have not acted
like a friend! I might have broken from him, since duty required it,
but I need not thus have wounded him!"

As at one instant of time all these thoughts flashed over his mind,
he stood, without attempting to follow his friend; but he could not
help exclaiming,--"Wharton!" Wharton still passed on. "He quits me
in deserved resentment!" said Louis, his heart overflowing with
contrition; and extricating his feet from the spot, where they had
seemed rooted, he made two or three swift steps towards him.

"Wharton!" repeated he, when he drew near, "that farewell must not be
for ever!"

Wharton turned round with a lofty and serious air;--"and, why should
you wish it otherwise?"

"Because," returned Louis, catching his hand, "I value your friendship
as my life, but not beyond my honour." Wharton gazed a moment on his
agitated countenance. In a softened voice, though yet maintaining his
unusual gravity, he replied, "you could not suppose I should ask you to
betray that in yourself, which is my own impugnable estate!"

Louis did not speak; but, with bent eyes, to conceal the tears which
filled them, pressed the Duke's hand. Wharton returned the cordial
re-assurance; and with a smile playing through his seriousness, he
added, "and least of all, when one of the dear sex, I have so long
adored to my cost, holds your honour in the charming fetters you have
just been hugging to your heart!"

Louis dropped the hand he was so affectionately clasping; and exclaimed
with energy, "by that honour, I swear that no amorous passion brought
me hither to-night!"

"Nor any night? nor any morning?" replied Wharton, with more of his
wonted gaiety! "I will believe just what you please; only make me a
vow that she shall not absorb you entirely; and, though I admire the
lady and love the sex, I will promise never to wish a reversion in my
favour!"

Louis was vexed at this wild speech. He saw, that so far from Wharton
having a suspicion that political objects employed him at Vienna, he
really believed that his friend's visits to the palace were actuated by
a passion for the Countess Altheim. Louis could not shut his eyes on
another conviction; that the Duke dishonoured the nature of the passion
he supposed, by regarding it rather as an affair _pour passer le tems_,
than as a serious attachment for life. But, in spite of his admiration
of the Countess, and of what had passed between them, he felt an
insurmountable repugnance to say in solemn, considered language, that
his visits to her were to terminate in an indissoluble union; and,
with a sudden bitterness of spirit towards Wharton himself, and the
entanglements of his situation, he exclaimed, with a severe look at his
friend, "you distract me, by this determination to believe that I am
engaged in the sort of connection that my soul abhors."

"And what, dear de Montemar, does your soul abhor?" returned the
Duke, drawing his friend's arm within his, and walking with him down
the passage; "the connection mine abhors is matrimony; for a young
Xantippe, under its privilege, even now clips my sides with her
everlasting bonds, like the spikes of a penance-girdle, piercing into
my heart."

"By the current of your wild attack," said Louis, with a crimsoned
cheek, "I could not have guessed that you meant an attachment which
pointed to so serious an end."

"Serious enough, at the best!" replied the Duke, laughing; "and, in
my case, I should say it was at the worst; could I not suppose a
quality or two even less to my liking, in your fair lady! She is too
much of a female Machiavel for my easy nature, and would have me in the
state-dungeons before our honeymoon had shot her horns."

Louis was silent, and his heart beat, even audibly, with its contending
emotions. Should he speak a word more, he might betray the secret of
the Empress,--of the Sieur,--of his father,--of the Sovereign of the
country, to which that father had devoted him!

Wharton and he were now at the outward gate of the palace. Louis
attempted to withdraw his arm, but the Duke held it fast. "Nay, nay, my
eager Lover! you will not find her in the street! you must sup with me
to-night."

"Not for the world."

"How?"

"We must part here, dear Wharton, and part friends,--eternal friends!
But ask no questions."

"I will be hanged," cried the Duke, "if you are not in such awful
mystery that, if you do not go home with me, and let me see that occult
soul of thine through the chrystaline of generous Burgundy, I shall
believe (added he in a whisper) that you are too well with the Empress
herself."

"Wharton!" cried Louis, dashing the Duke from him, "you will make me
hate you."

"You dare not for your life and honours, dear petulant boy!" cried the
Duke, with a frank-hearted laugh; "and, till we meet in feast or fray,
give me thy gauntlet!" He stretched out his hand. Louis regretted the
violence with which he had spoken; but feeling the precipice on which
he stood, and dreading further detention, he gave his hand with evident
hesitation. Wharton shook it with gay cordiality, and said in his
kindest accents, "thou faithless one! dost thou suspect I am going to
realize the frog and the raven, and tear thee between my beak and claw!"

He then pressed the hand he held, with the warmth of a full heart; and
as he felt Louis's shake in the grasp, he added with strong emphasis;
"well, haste away! but I would snatch you from the snares which misled
my youthful feet, in the paths you have now entered. I would lead
you, where you may plant honour, and reap renown. Oh, de Montemar, I
would put a royal heart in that breast, whose pulses are fed by the
blood of kings!--Start not!--But thou must not grovel, and creep, and
follow--where you may rise and lead!--De Montemar, thou art enslaved
and mocked.--Come with me, and you are again free."

"Not for the best blood in my heart!" exclaimed Louis, now exulting in
his knowledge of the great cause to which he had devoted himself. "You
are mistaken Wharton; and again, I must say, farewell!"

"Be it so," returned the Duke, relinquishing his hand; "but you
will remember Philip Wharton, when it is out of the power of his
irrepressible friendship to extricate the son of the rich, the great,
Baron de Ripperda, from the bonds and bondage of a too fair Semiramis
and her subtiler confidant!"

Louis now understood that the Duke could not have meant to have
referred at all to a political slavery, which his former speech seemed
to imply; but that still he intended only to warn him against the
vassalage of the heart. Wharton certainly said enough to open the
mind of his friend to some suspicion of the perfection of his fair
mistress's character; but before he could rally himself to compose some
safe answer, the Duke had disappeared into the universal darkness of
the outer court.




CHAP. VIII.


The Sieur Ignatius did as he had determined. He went, and alone, to the
Empress the following morning. What he had to propose, soon made her
call the chancellor to the conference; and during the discussion, the
Sieur so ably adapted the mutual pretensions of the rival monarchs,
to the eagerness of their consorts to conclude a treaty, that nothing
remained to be done, when he left the apartment, but to obtain the
Imperial sign manual, to what the Empress and her minister so heartily
approved.

As Ignatius put a large casket of golden arguments, for certain members
of the council, into the hands of Sinzendorff, Elizabeth promised that
the Emperor's decision should be sent to Vienna, as soon as he could
collect his counsellors around him at the Luxemburg; to which palace
he meant to go next morning, for a few days. Meanwhile she recommended
to the Sieur, and through him, to his secretary, that they should keep
in strict seclusion; for she apprehended the indiscreet stir which the
Queen of Spain had made on the affront put upon her daughter, would
excite an immediate attention in the ambassadors at Madrid, to some
anticipation of her meditated revenge. All know that the political
train laid by these honourable spies of nations, is as subtle as it is
long, devious, and invisible; and where suspicion once points, it is
but the word of a moment to set the whole in a blaze. To avert such a
catastrophe to Isabella's too open threats against France, Ignatius
adopted this advice, as it coincided with his own judgment; and,
accordingly, he seemed to immure himself as during his wounds; but he
was amply occupied in arrangements, which only awaited the fiat of the
Emperor, to be brought into immediate action.

During this suspense, Ignatius received accounts from Sinzendorff,
which proved the wisdom of their caution. He informed him, that
visits at unseasonable hours had been repeatedly exchanged between
the French and other foreign ambassadors resident at Vienna; and that
he knew, from indisputable authority, that a messenger had arrived
from Paris, who was closeted with the French minister for many hours;
and that the same night His Excellency was seen, without any of his
accustomed attendants, gliding into the palace of the Electress of
Bavaria. In another letter, Sinzendorff communicated to the Sieur,
that he had certain intelligence of a private supper which had been
given the preceding evening in the Electress's _boudoir_; and no women
were present but herself and her Lady of the Key; while the men were
the French ambassador, the Dutch Minister, a French philosopher from
Berlin, the fierce ex-chancellor Count Stahlberg, and the Duke of
Wharton. What was the subject of their deliberations, Sinzendorff could
give no information; but he did not doubt that it brooded mischief to
the present crisis between Austria and Spain.

In Louis's nocturnal visits to the College, he gladly saw that little
inconvenience remained to the Sieur from his dangerous attack,
excepting incidental head-aches, and the scar on his forehead, which
being recently cicatrised, he still covered with a black fillet.
The cadaverous hue of his complexion was hardly deepened by his
confinement; but Louis occasionally saw a more than common fire flash
from his over-shadowed eye, as he accidentally looked up from the
papers he scrutinized. During the investigation, he never spoke more
than to ask a question, or to give a direction respecting the business
on which he was engaged; and generally answered his pupil's respectful
adieu for the night, with a silent, though gracious nod.

Louis's long hours of solitude, (for the whole of the Imperial family
had accompanied the Emperor to his spring palace;) were passed at the
Chateau. And after he had performed his, now brief vocation for the
day, he generally read German authors from the Jesuits' library; or
walked in the weedy wilderness, which had once been a garden. He now,
neither regarded the swift-flowing Danube, nor the gay groups, which
on foot or in carriages, appeared in the distance on its margin. His
meditations were all self centered; on the past, the present, and the
future. Often, during his deep reverie, he wondered at himself, that
his mind should wander, and at such a crisis, from the great affair in
which he was a sharer. A year ago, had he speculated on what would
have occupied his thoughts in so important a political era of his life,
he should have said,--"Exultation in the grand results of my father's
patriotic genius; and satisfaction that my noviciate talents had been
employed in the glorious atchievement!"

But on the reverse, while he sat at the feet of statesmen, and was
the agent between negociating sovereigns, he found himself dwelling,
hour after hour, on the private feelings of his heart. He was ready
to quarrel with himself for this wretched perversity. In the quiet
vales of Northumberland, he had lived in the full enjoyment of these
feelings; but then his vagrant thoughts refused to dwell on tranquil
happiness. He panted for distant realms, fields of toil, of perils, and
renown. He was now in the midst of some of these invoked stations for
action; and yet his inconsistent spirit would not abide in the scenes
it had chosen! His meditations would extricate themselves from their
patriotic objects, and with obstinate tenacity fasten themselves on the
most selfish considerations:--on the friend he had loved, and had fled
from! on the woman, he believed he loved, and yet was glad to fly!

He recalled the several warnings he had received, at home and abroad,
against the Duke; but the recollection of the natural and acquired
advantages he possessed over all other men he had known, presented
themselves of their own accord to Louis; and his spell-bound eyes, not
seeing where the scale turned, he dismissed the subject. The image of
the fair Otteline glided before his mind's eye, like the descent of
Iris from the rainbow: all brilliancy and ambrosial beauty. He had only
to articulate her name, to make the pulse pause in his heart, and a
dissolving sensibility steal over all his senses.

"And yet," he murmured to himself, "fair as thou art, I feel a chill
on my soul, whenever I think of pledging it to thee for ever. Oh,
wherefore?" cried he, "she is lovely, she is tender; but she has not
that elevated look in those beautiful eyes, which used to mingle my
highest thoughts with the soul of Cornelia! She has not that ineffable
glance of exclusive affection, which shoots direct to the heart, and
kindles a faith there, no doubts can extinguish!"

There was something in the parting words of the Duke, respecting the
Empress and her _subtle confidant_, which had adhered to the memory
of Louis, and continued to harass him with conjectures. By that
confidant, the Sieur Ignatius, or the Countess Altheim, might have
been understood; but it could not be the Sieur; as Wharton appeared so
unsuspicious of a political errand taking his friend to the palace,
that he avowed his belief at once, it was an amatory attraction.

"And was she _subtle_?" Louis's heart revolted at the question; though
he could not disguise from his clearer judgment, that she had herself
suggested to him the only incontrovertible mode of silencing the
scandal, she had thought herself obliged by duty to sanction as a truth.

"It was not what I like," said Louis, trying to excuse her to himself.
But had he uttered his own principles upon the subject, he would
have said,--"It is what I not merely blame, but shrink from, as an
unpardonable dereliction from female modesty!"

But in this case, he thought her zeal for the Empress, and her
prepossession in his favour, had obliterated from her mind all
consideration of what was due to herself; and the impelling motives
made him find an apology and a pardon for the amiable delinquent.

"Yes," cried he, "she sacrificed her native delicacy, in a double
respect to the disinterestedness of her attachment. Did I not see the
soft lustre of her eyes kindle with the blushes on her cheeks, and
look downwards, to conceal the graceful shame, as she insinuated the
delightful alternative!"

Louis was now far advanced in persuading himself that all was
delightful, which, he believed he was now bound in honour to make his
own, whether it were to his wishes or not. "Her conduct could not be
_subtility_," continued he, "for she is ignorant that I am the _son
of the rich, the great Ripperda_. Oh, Wharton, you wrong her! there
is nothing in my apparent present station to make a union with me, an
object of interest with the favourite of the Empress of Germany. She
must prefer me, for myself alone; and I am a wretch of ingratitude
ever to have found it necessary to convince myself by these doubting
arguments!"

In the midst of such musings, he was surprised one evening, by Gerard
putting into his hand a letter addressed to, "The Chevalier de
Phaffenberg." The hand-writing was unknown to him; indeed, evidently
a feigned one. He enquired whence it came. Gerard replied, he did not
know: but the letter was brought by a man in the dark, who left it
without saying a word. Louis broke the seal, and read as follows:--

"The carriage which conveys you to the Jesuits' College will be beset
to-night in your usual route through the deserted street of Saint
Xavier. The papers, of which you are to be the bearer, will be taken
from you. Resistance would be vain, for the assailants are numerous.
To avoid the loss of your trust, and perhaps of your life, should your
temerity contest the matter, take a different path to-night. But to no
one, excepting your friend the Jesuit, mention this warning. Were it
suspected, he that writes it, would soon be put beyond the power of
repeating the service."

"_Tuesday Evening._" Louis thought of the attempted assassination of
Ignatius. The letter he held in his hand was a second confirmation
that, notwithstanding the Sieur's severe precautions, the mysterious
business of himself and his secretary was so little a secret to its
enemies, that they knew exactly where to point even the most iniquitous
means, when they thought such expedient to obtain information, or to
create preventions. Who the anonymous friend was, who ran the risque
implied at the close of the letter, Louis had no hesitation to believe
must be the Duke of Wharton; for the Sieur had hinted to him, only
the night before, that he knew the Duke was one of a secret committee
who sat nightly at the Bavarian apartments. Wharton must then have
discovered that his friend's visits to the palace had a higher aim than
gallantry; and Louis felt something like a proud satisfaction in the
conviction. The letter, he trusted, would be a sufficient pledge to
Ignatius of Wharton's fidelity to his friend; and that whatever might
be his bonds to a party, they could not tie his faith to connivance
with a dishonourable act. This head of the subject being settled in his
own mind; and being enabled, by the warning, to avoid the threatened
violence; he would have given up his thoughts to the delicious
enjoyment of gratefulness to so dear a friend, had he not trembled to
think how far the Duke of Wharton's repulsed recognition of him, might
have led to so full a discovery respecting the secret movements of the
Sieur and himself.

He saw that he must apprise Ignatius of the knowledge his enemies had
acquired of his proceedings; and, in doing so, shew the letter he had
just received; and, while he declared his belief that Duke Wharton
was the friendly writer, be obliged to narrate what he had hitherto
concealed:--his meeting, and at last enforced discourse with the Duke.
As Louis reflected on the real harmlessness of that discourse; and on
the necessity, at the present momentous juncture, to make his guardian
master of every circumstance that might bear at all towards it; he
felt the folly of his reserve: and though at the time he had persuaded
himself that his silence arose from reluctance to agitate needlessly
a wounded man, his conscience now accused him of mental cowardice, in
shrinking from the pain he anticipated to himself in the torturing
discussion.

"In flying one stroke," said he, "I have incurred twenty. Had I
spoken at the time, I should only have had to narrate an event which
happened without my seeking; and the worst could only have been the
Sieur's suspicions of the Duke wishing to draw me to the Bavarian
interest. But now, he may see something clandestine in my silence; and
at best consider me imprudent and mean, if not absolutely insincere
and worthless." Though harrassed by these reflections, he was not
negligent of his trust. When he got into the carriage that was to
convey him as usual to the College, it was himself only he committed
to the casualties of the evening. He did not take one of the papers
with him; thinking it possible that the assailants, missing their prey
in the old deserted street, would way-lay him (as their emissaries had
probably done Ignatius,) in the college porch. The warning-letter,
(which he held in his hand, to tear piece-meal should he be attacked;)
he thought would fully account to the Sieur for this precaution.
Having placed his pistols in his waistcoat, he ordered the coachman to
drive to the College by a circuit in an opposite direction from Saint
Xavier's; and being obeyed; without any sign of molestation he reached
the Jesuit's cell at the accustomed hour.

The result of this dreaded interview with the stern friend of his
father, was very different from what Louis had expected. On his
entrance, he presented the anonymous warning, as his apology for not
having risqued the usual evening quota of state-papers through the
threatened danger. Ignatius examined the hand writing and the seal. The
former was a cramped text; the latter, a common diapered stamp.

"Who in Vienna can know you, to be thus interested in you, even as the
Chevalier de Phaffenberg? You have been seen by none out of the routine
of our business; excepting, indeed, that one accidental meeting with
the Electress of Bavaria and her attendant! Surely a five minutes'
glimpse of your handsome person, Louis," added the Sieur with a half
smile, "could not have wrought so potently on the latter lady, as to
excite her to such perilous intervention!"

"I am not quite the coxcomb to suppose it," returned Louis with an
answering smile, but a flushed cheek, from the consciousness of what
he had to confess. Without circumlocution, or reserve, but with eyes
cast down, and a varying complexion, he began and continued the whole
narration of Duke Wharton's seeing him twice in the galleries of the
palace; his escape from him the first time, and the Duke's consequent
remarks to the Countess Altheim: but that on their second recontre
he had found it impossible to break away, without suffering the
conversation, which he now circumstantially repeated.

Ignatius spoke not a word during the agitated recital of his pupil.
While making his confession, Louis did not venture to look up under
this awful silence; but when he concluded, and his eyes were still
riveted to the ground, the Sieur put his hand on his, and said in an
emphatic voice--"This honest narrative has established your character
with me. I see by your looks, that it is not left to another to lecture
you on the danger of your late concealments: I leave you, therefore,
in that respect to your own admonitions. But I will not withhold my
entire approbation of the dexterity with which you parried every
question of that serpent Englishman. Do not frown at the severity of
the epithet. Did you know him, as well as he is known at Paris and in
this capital, you would not doubt that he has many properties of that
wreathing reptile besides his glassy surface!"

"And yet, Sir," cried Louis, "I believe it is he who has ventured his
safety to give me this warning!"

"It may be," returned the Sieur, "and he no less a serpent still. But
for your escape, and that of the papers, I am obliged to him, and we
will dismiss the subject. There is another, on which I must give you a
necessary hint; the Countess Altheim."

At that name, the conscious blood rushed into the before-blanched cheek
of Louis, and his heart beat with an alarm to which he could assign
no cause. The Sieur paused a moment or two, regarding his pupil with a
steady look before he went on.

"You have too much of the woman in your face, young man;" said he,
"to keep your own secret, however faithful you may be of another's.
I see the pretty favourite has gained her point with your heart; but
do not allow your lips to commit your honour, till this public affair
is finished, and you may consult your father's opinion of such an
alliance. A rash step here would offend him for ever."

Louis bowed his acquiescence to this command, but it was not with a
constrained air. The Sieur saw that he was grateful for the gentleness
with which his confession had been treated, and respectfully obedient
to the injunction which concluded the discourse.

Louis returned to the Chateau by the same track he had left it, and
therefore reached his home in safety. The next day passed as the
former; and having just finished his hermit stroll under the silver
light of a bright March moon, he was slowly retracing his steps to the
house, when he met Gerard approaching him with information that the
Sieur Ignatius awaited him in the saloon. This unexpected visit alarmed
Louis. He instantly feared that some fatal turn had taken place with
regard to the completion of their labours, and that the Sieur had come
to announce it. He hastened however to his summons.

Wrapped as before in his large dark mantle, Ignatius was standing in
the middle of the room. The black fillet which pressed down his heavy
eye-brows, and the hearse-like plumes that pended over them, cast such
flickering shadows over his grey visage, that he seemed to Louis, as he
stood in the moon-light, more like the awful spectre of his guardian,
than his living self.

Louis thought he saw his fears confirmed. He approached, he drew very
near to him, and still the Sieur did not speak. Louis could not bear
the suspense, and exclaimed, "Sir, you have ill news to tell me?"

"Look on my face," replied Ignatius, in a tone of voice from which
neither good nor evil could be gathered, "and try to read what sort of
news the disciplined blood of a tried politician will declare."

Louis fixed his eyes as he was commanded, but it was with apprehension;
for he thought this beginning was to prepare him for the ruin of their
cause. His eyes shrunk from the proud fire which shone in the steady
gaze of the Sieur. It might arise from the pride of triumph, or be
the bright emanation of determined fortitude! But the latter idea
possessed his pupil. The extent of the misfortune he dreaded to hear;
as, again and again he had been warned that his father's honour was
involved in the fate of this treaty.

"Speak, dear Sir!" cried he, "I cannot guess what has happened, from
your countenance."

"Yet," said Ignatius, "it is easy to interpret what you believe ought
to be legible there, from yours! But, Louis de Montemar, if you are
to follow your father's career, to this moveless complexion you must
come at last. Else, vain will it be to discipline your tongue, if your
unmanageable blood betray the story. Know then, that our labours have
been successful. The Emperor has given his full consent to every demand
of Spain."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Louis, clasping his hands, and dropping into a
chair. The Sieur seated himself beside him, and without noticing his
emotion, (for all the son was then in Louis's heart) he entered into
the details of the business. The Imperial family had returned that
morning to Vienna. The Empress immediately summoned Ignatius to attend
her. He obeyed; and received from Her Majesty those particulars of the
Emperor's assent, which were now recounted to the attentive secretary.
The Sieur then added, that after he quitted the palace, he referred for
further instructions to a packet which the last dispatch from Spain had
brought in the Queen's letter-case; and which being superscribed to
himself, with the additional words, "only to be opened in the event of
the Emperor acceding to our proposals;" he had laid it aside until the
present, which was the appointed moment.

"As the conditions were fulfilled," continued the Sieur, "I broke the
seal; and the contents are these. A letter from the King, commanding
me to announce to their Caesarean Majesties the entrance of his
ambassador into Vienna, in the course of eight-and-forty hours after
the information should be communicated to them. And that ambassador,
Louis de Montemar," added Ignatius, "is your father."

Louis sprang from his seat. The Sieur rose also, and continued; "in
reward of his high services, the King makes him his representative
here, with the restitution of his father's title and honours, and an
establishment answerable to all these dignities."

This part of the information, Ignatius addressed to ears that heard him
not. The word _father_! that sacred idea, which had so long filled the
heart and the hopes of Louis, which had seemed the goal whither all
his ambitions and his duties pointed; this holy image had sealed up
his sense, only to dwell upon the idea of his expected presence. With
the announcement of his near approach, Louis thought of nothing else;
and covering his face with his hands, the tears of filial love,--of
filial triumph,--of gratitude to heaven, that he should at last behold
that honoured countenance, poured from his eyes, and bathed his hands.
Ignatius gazed on him,--gazed on his heaving,--his sobbing breast. A
tear of sympathy, started into even his Stoic eye, as he turned away,
and walked in silence down the room.

It was some minutes before Louis could recall himself from the inward
temple of his soul, where his grateful heart had prostrated him
before the Giver of all Good. When he looked up, he saw the Sieur at
a distance, with his back to him, and leaning near the window which
looked towards the Danube. Louis approached him;--"your goodness," said
he, "has pardoned a son, shewing some natural emotion at so sudden
an intimation of soon seeing the most honoured, the most beloved of
parents?"

"Such sins are easily forgiven," returned Ignatius, with downward
eyelids. "To-morrow, at this hour, your father will be at the _Palais
d'Espagne_; the residence, under the late dynasty, of the Spanish
ambassador at Vienna. You must be there to greet him."

Louis's eyes answered in the affirmative, for his lips denied their
office; and the Sieur proceeded in his further orders. He said, that
circumstances rendered it necessary that he should meet the Duke;
therefore, as time pressed, his pupil must perform all that was to be
done at the palace; and go that night at ten o'clock to the Chancellor
Sinzendorff, and deliver to him those three packets. Ignatius had
laid several on the table before the entrance of Louis; which he only
just now observed: there were other packets to be presented the same
night to the Empress; "of whom," continued the Sieur, "Sinzendorff
will see the propriety of requesting an immediate audience, to give
you the opportunity of announcing the instant approach of the Duke de
Ripperda, as the Spanish ambassador; and, when you do it, Louis, you
must intimate that the nomination of the Duke is meant as a peculiar
mark of the Spanish King's friendship for their Caesarean Majesties, in
thus parting with a man to do them honour, whose presence is as dear to
his heart, as invaluable to his interests."

"This will be a hard trial of my diplomatic skill," rejoined Louis,
with a happy smile; "to speak of him only as an ambassador."

"You will not, however, shew yourself his son," replied the Sieur, "if
you do not put that restraint upon your feelings. Whatever may be his
years, he is yet but a puling boy, who is not master of his face, and
the veins which color it. Remember, it is a _man_, I have engaged to
present in you to the Duke of Ripperda; and that it is he, who exacts
of you to name him this night in the Empress's _boudoir_, with as cool
an aspect as if you were announcing the arrival of a perfect stranger."

"Ah, Sir!" exclaimed Louis, "who can name the Duke de Ripperda, with
the cool utterance which they might give to almost any other man? Is
he not loved every where, where known? And where he is only heard
of, is he not universally honoured? And can a son name such a father
without emotion? Oh, Sir, send some other messenger, if I am to act an
impossibility!"

"Well," replied Ignatius, throwing back his lofty plumes, and drawing
his hand over his brow, "do your best in this commission, as you have
done in other circumstances of management, and I do not doubt that the
father you are so proud of, will be satisfied with his son." "I will
do my best," cried Louis, seeing that the Sieur was moving to depart,
"and, oh, dearest Sir, tell my revered father how impatient I am to
meet him--to kneel at his feet--to be clasped in his arms!"--The last
words were hardly articulated, from his encreasing emotion, and as the
crowding tears again started to his eyes, he dashed them off:--ere he
drew his hand from before them, the Sieur had left the apartment,--and
he saw him no more!

When the happy Louis found himself alone, he threw himself into a chair
to indulge the luxury of his feelings, to bless the time-honoured
name of his father; to weep with mingled recollections over the
long interval which had passed since his widowed arms had resigned
him, a babe, to the tears of his grandfather, now numbered with the
dust. He thought of that good old man's tender care. Of the paternal
guardianship of his uncle of Lindisfarne, of his benediction when they
parted, and the sacred letter which he put into his hand, as the last
legacy of his dying mother. In that, she spoke to her only son, as from
her seat in Heaven, exhorting him to love and honour his father, as the
object in his heart nearest to his God! The letter, Louis soon drew
from the case in which he preserved it; and pressing it to his lips,
on his knees, as he would have done her sacred hand, he there uttered
the fullness of his heart in vows to obey her behest; and to love that
father, on whom his conscious eyes had never rested, with, indeed, a
double portion of his spirit, for the sake of that father's own noble
nature; and for her's, who had resigned her life, in giving him to
existence.

These reflections diffused a holy stillness over the happiness which
now occupied the heart of Louis. And as the time approached for the
fulfilment of his duty at the palace, he collected the royal packets;
and putting them in his bosom, wrapped himself in his cloak; and, as
the clock struck ten, he entered the carriage with a blissful serenity
over his mind, that seemed to breathe of paradise.




CHAP. IX.


Louis delivered the letters of Ignatius to the Chancellor; and in as
few words, and with as much composure as he could command, he announced
the near approach of the Spanish ambassador. Sinzendorff fixed his
observing glance on the fluttering lip that proclaimed the honoured
name, and his doubts were confirmed. He read the letters, and then
remarked, that his Imperial master would be particularly gratified by
the promptitude of this arrival. The intended ambassador must have been
sent forward, to be in readiness, for the proper moment of his official
appearance; and this preparation fully proved the King of Spain's
honourable dependence on the fair dealing of the cabinet of Austria.
Again he fixed his eyes on the face of his self-restrained auditor; and
after expressing himself in terms of high respect with regard to the
Duke de Ripperda, and applauding the decisive step he had taken, in
accepting the embassy, he became fully satisfied that it was the son
of the Duke he saw before him. The Chancellor smiled within himself at
his own discovery, and at the attempted concealment by the Empress; but
without observing on either, he addressed Louis still as the secretary
de Phaffenberg, and proposed their going immediately to the Altheim
apartments.

"We shall certainly find Her Majesty there;" said he, "for the Emperor
passes some hours to-night with his confessor, and the Empress told me
she meant to enjoy the time in confidential discourse with Countess
Otteline."

Louis followed the statesman to the Imperial _boudoir_; and, as he
expected, there he found the gracious Elizabeth and her beautiful
favourite in close conference. He announced that the Chevalier was in
the anti-room, with a commission from the Sieur Ignatius.

"Something extraordinary, by the hour!" cried the Empress, "but I trust
no evil report. I am ready to see him."

Louis entered. He did not look on the side where the Countess stood,
but approaching his father's illustrious friends with a steadiness
of step that surprized himself; and with less visible emotion than
he could have hoped, he delivered to her the message from Ignatius;
adding, that the Sieur would have had the honour of declaring it
in person, had he not been obliged to pass the night in necessary
preliminaries to joining the Embassador, in the morning, at St. Polten.
In the evening, he would enter with him into Vienna.

The Empress's bright eyes shot a radiant glance on the modest bend of
the young secretary's head, as he concluded; and suddenly clasping
the Countess in her arms, she exclaimed,--"_Ave Maria!_ This is the
crown of the Incas!" The Countess did not comprehend the fulness of her
meaning; neither did Louis quite understand it. Sinzendorff thought,
that if disappointment had rendered Isabella rash in her threats,
success seemed to have a similar effect on Elizabeth, by inflating her
with hopes not less alarming. He believed he read in this extraordinary
exclamation, that she anticipated a no small share in the wealth of the
new world, by her influence over the promised Embassador; and that she
would make the marriage settlement for her daughter, an abundant dowry
for herself. Whatever were her thoughts, her face was refulgent with
animation; and receiving the packets of Ignatius from the hand of Louis
with one of her most gracious smiles, she commanded him to take what
entertainment the Countess Altheim would afford him, while she should
retire with the Chancellor, to examine the papers in her hand.

Louis bowed in obedience, and the Empress and her counsellor withdrew:
she smiled to herself, as she closed the door on this auspicious hour
for the lovers; for such, she determined it should be. She had herself
fanned the admiration of the young secretary into the flame which she
now saw kindling on his cheek, as with downward eyes, he saw himself
on the point of being left alone with its object! From the first hour
of his beholding her, until this present moment, the Empress had
condescended to be the adviser and the confident of her beautiful
friend. She loved her too sincerely, not to assist in effecting so
illustrious a means, as a marriage with the son of Ripperda, of
reinstating her in the rank she had lost by her widowhood. But with
all this zeal in her cause, the Imperial Elizabeth did not betray the
secret of Ripperda; she merely hinted to the ambitious Otteline, that
the Chevalier de Phaffenberg was other than he seemed, and, did she
marry him, would place her at the height of her desires. "But," added
she, "there may exist powers to counteract the wishes only, of the
truest lover: you must therefore, lose no opportunity of binding his
honour."

With these views, she regretted the week at the Luxemburg, which had
necessarily separated the favourite from the object of her present aim.
But when he appeared at the palace with his important tidings, the
Empress gave way to every glad anticipation; and hoping all things from
his unsuspecting and ardent nature, she seized the first opportunity of
leaving him with the Countess; hardly doubting, that under the present
heart-opening circumstances, he would reveal every secret of his rank,
his name, and future plans, to make her his for ever.

Louis no sooner found himself alone with the resistless Otteline, than
his throbbing pulse reminded him that his guardian's exhortation was
in danger. In spite of himself, his eyes had stolen a glance towards
her, as the Empress withdrew; and her personal charms seemed to break
upon him, that night, in fuller lustre, even than before, when he
thought that nothing could have encreased the perfection of her beauty.
Their former meetings were always in a morning, when the dress is more
enveloped, and consequently less of the figure is displayed. This was
the first time he had seen her at a later hour, and she was habited as
she had left the Imperial drawing-room. Her dress was white, and her
fair arms and snowy bosom, decorated with jewels, drew the eye to forms
that might drive the sculptors of Greece to despair. Her golden tresses
were coiled with the same gorgeous bands; while one glittering ringlet,
escaped from its confinement, waved over her spotless neck, as if it
were the wing of love fluttering towards the guarded regions of her
heart. She caught the glance, and the almost smothered sigh, with which
Louis affected to turn his attention towards a cage of birds which
stood near him.

She did not appear to observe his embarrassment, but gently echoing
the sigh, remained leaning against the pedestal of a vase of flowers,
with her eyes fixed on the profile of his face. She guessed, that he
saw nothing in the gilded cage, but her image in his mind. Again she
sighed; and with such an expression, that Louis felt it thrill through
his frame. He turned his head, and their eyes met. Her's were full of
entrancing softness; his, of a grateful passion, which he would fain
have rendered less distinct. She smiled tenderly, and stretched her
arm towards him. In that moment he remembered how they had separated:
he was again in the same position, at her side, her hand in his, and
clasped to his lips! The brilliant roses on her cheeks did not lose
their brightness, in this speechless, but eloquent avowal of his love.
But the Empress had told her to require _words_!

Her fair fingers trembled in his, when she falteringly
articulated--"Chevalier! you have been so long absent--I thought--" She
paused, and looked down.

"Not," exclaimed he, "that I had forgotten to be grateful?"

She slowly raised her eyes towards his; and while the softest
tears swam over her own, and gemmed a dimpled smile; she half
whispered,--"the heart is a coward!"

"Never your's!" cried he, forgetting his determined self-restraint,
in the bewitching mazes of her thousand beauties, in the resistless
fascination of her words and looks. With a burning blush, she sunk
into a chair, but still yielding her hand to his fervent pressure, she
suffered him to drop upon one knee by her side.

"Never can you doubt," cried he, "where you have once confided."

She averted her head, and shook it mournfully. A tear fell on his hand.
Louis's soul was on his lips, as he kissed away that tear. The Countess
covered her face, and almost sobbed. He had now no remembrance of any
thing but herself. She was agitated, even distressed; and he was the
cause! He attempted to speak, but emotion prevented his utterance;
he trembled, and grasped her hand; she felt the strong pulsation of
his heart against her knee, and softly murmured,--"This Embassador
arrives--and you will go!" She interrupted herself, and attempting to
rise, exclaimed in disorder, "Oh, that I had never listened to our last
conference!"

Louis detained her on her seat. He must have been dull as the iron
rock, and hard as its material, had he hesitated to understand and to
reply to this agitation, this language. But words were inadequate to
express the sympathy which seemed to dissolve all his faculties in the
one feeling of unutterable love. He could only kneel at her feet, and
clasp the hand he had detained, to his throbbing eyes.

Her exulting heart believed itself now near the gaol of all its winding
movements: a positive declaration of his love, and an unequivocal
solicitation of her hand, in veritable words! Another step, and this
bond of honour would be her's. But she did not permit the triumph of
her thoughts to rise upon the managed scene of her countenance; all
there was retreating softness: yet, allowing her arm to drop, as if
unconsciously on his shoulder, with the sweet familiarity of perfect
confidence, she gently said, "and may I believe that you love me well
enough, to make me your's, in spite of the world's harsh prejudice
against a birth that was not noble? Can you be determined to bear me
up against that world? For she who is the favourite of the Empress has
many enemies; and when she is known to be beloved by you, she will have
many more.--Ah, Chevalier, against all this, may I believe that you
will be true?"

This demand, though put with all the force of exquisite tenderness,
giving itself without reserve to the fidelity of implied attachment,
contained words that recalled Louis from the delirium of passion,
and made him ask himself, how _true_ he had kept his engagement
with Ignatius? How _true_ he had maintained his _determination_ to
preserve his duty to his father? since he was even now on the point of
dishonouring both, by uttering the very vow against which he had been
so solemnly enjoined!

Shocked at the oblivion in which all memory of his duty had lain for
the last half-hour, and indignant with himself, that his consequent
discovery of a more than reciprocal passion, had betrayed the Countess
to the last decisive question, he started from his knees, and said in a
hurried voice, "I dare not answer you as my heart would dictate, most
lovely, most beloved of women!--I am not my own.--In pity then--in
honour--allow my lips to be silent for a time."

She hastily rose from her chair.--"I do not understand you, Chevalier!"

He thought he had wounded her delicacy and her love, and with encreased
agitation, he exclaimed, "Despise my weakness, my apparent indecision,
but do not doubt my heart! do not doubt the honour, that would sooner
immolate that heart's dearest wishes, than make them all its own by a
breach of positive duty."

What was now passing in her mind, he could only guess, by the quick
heaving of her bosom; for she covered her face with one hand, while
she attempted to shake off the fond grasp with which he clung to the
other.

"You do doubt me?" cried he.

"You are mysterious; and I have no alternative."

"Oh," repeated he, "does the friend of the Empress Elizabeth, the
confident of statesmen! does she doubt the honour of mystery?"

The Countess smiled, and no longer struggling to release her hand,
turned on him a look of perfect re-assurance. But what she would have
said, the enchanted heart of Louis could only translate by its own
vivid imaginations; for the door of the interior apartment opened, and
the Empress and her counsellor reappeared.

The Countess, in a beautiful disorder of smiles and blushes, moved
forward to meet Her Majesty; and Louis, bowing to her advancing step,
remained where his Circe had left him. The Empress entered, as she
had departed, full of animation; and without appearing to observe that
any thing particular had passed between her favourite and the young
secretary, she proceeded to speak of the letters she had just been
reading; one from the Queen of Spain, and the other from Ripperda
himself. She turned to Louis with a peculiar smile; "Chevalier," said
she, "I must be your patroness with this great man. If you have any
suit to proffer, trust it with me."

Louis coloured deeper than the scarlet on her robe; but did not trust
his eyes towards the Countess. The Empress resumed the discourse to
Sinzendorff; narrating her first acquaintance with Ripperda, when he
came a widower to her father's court, on a mission from the States
General. She expatiated on the amplitude of his character; adding, that
it was a sure proof of the King of Spain's own talents, that he knew so
well how to distinguish, and to appropriate the genius of such a man
as the Duke de Ripperda.

For the first time in his life, Louis heard the praises of his father,
as the whirring of an indistinct sound. Absorbed by the new emotions
which laboured in his heart, he had no eyes but for the tremulous form,
no ears but for the low quick sighs of his enrapturing Otteline. He had
no thoughts but of wonder, how he could ever have paused for a moment
in believing her, all perfect in mind, as well as in body; in feeling
her, all sweet devoted love, as she was all resistless loveliness.
"Ah," said he to himself, "Ignatius might see her unmoved; but my
father, who has loved excellence in woman's form, has only to see her,
to bless the happy destiny of his son!"

The Empress, by a side glance, read his soul in his eyes, and stealing
a pressure of congratulation on the arm of the Countess; with apparent
unconcern, turned to Sinzendorff, and exclaimed: "but, Chancellor,
before we part for the night, I must not forget to mention what might
have been a notable discovery, had not this happy promptitude in
Ripperda's arrival put all beyond the power of manoeuvre. Otteline,
shew the Chancellor the letter."

The Countess took an open letter from a locked casket on the table, and
put it into his hand.

"Read it aloud, for general benefit," said the Empress, "there is
nothing more improving to politicians, than the _faux pas_ of a rival."

The Chancellor looked towards the door.

"Shoot the bolt, Chevalier de Phaffenberg," cried the Empress, "His
Excellency seems to suspect treachery in the vestibule."

Louis obeyed, and returning to the side of Sinzendorff, as the pointing
hand of Her Majesty commanded, His Excellency began to read. The
superscription was to Madame la Comtesse Altenstein, and the contents
as follows:--

"Apprise the fair head of so many faithful members, that the power
which threatens our existence is now so gorged with its various prey,
as to have fallen asleep. It dreams of empire; and talks its secrets
to a darkness full of eyes, and in a solitude of more observation than
the ear of Dionysius. To night, I will bring a good account of _one at
least_, of its mining emissaries; while a sure train is laid under the
feet of _the rest_."

When the Chancellor ceased reading, and was examining the hand-writing,
Louis thought of the caution he had received the preceding evening.
Dreading a similar attack might way-lay Ignatius next morning in his
journey to meet the ambassador, (when the faithful Jesuit would be
attended by no stronger guard than the unweaponed arm of Martini,) his
anxious pupil, full of alarm, abruptly asked the date of the letter.

"Yesterday morning," replied Sinzendorff, folding up the paper, "and
since we cannot count the loss of any of our members, we must conclude
this doughty champion, whoever he may be, has failed in his pledge to
the lady to whom he has devoted his sword."

"Or rather his dagger!" replied the Empress, "we have found they do
not challenge with fairer weapons. But now, let us vote thanks to the
vigilant hand that intercepted this bungling piece of treason; and pass
to a pleasanter subject. My Otteline found the fairy favour!"

"And by what kind dispensation?" enquired the Chancellor, as with a bow
of acquiescence to the Empress, he returned the letter to her friend.

"While I was at the Luxemburg, a whole bundle of letters collected
themselves in this drawer," replied the Countess, putting her hand upon
a part of the table, in which was an aperture to receive and to hold in
safety all that might arrive during her absence; "and only returning
to-day, I had not time to examine my correspondence till about an hour
or two ago, while I was waiting for the Empress. In turning them over,
I saw this directed, as you see, to the Electress's Lady of the Key.
I know that she is the repository of her mistress's secrets; and it
was possible this letter might contain some of them. I thought the
hand-writing was that of the envious Count Stalhberg. Accident had
conducted it to me," added the beautiful Otteline with an exulting
smile; "and I would not throw away my fortune:--I broke the seal."

At the last sentence, Louis sprang back from the spot on which he
stood, as if he had trod on a serpent. The resounding of the floor
under his recoiling feet, turned all eyes upon him.

"Monsieur Phaffenberg!" cried the Chancellor, in a voice of reproof;
"you forget in whose presence you are?"

Louis put his hand to his forehead, as he strove to recover his
appalled senses. He turned to the Empress: "I have no words in which to
beg Your Majesty's forgiveness for this! But such irritability shall
never offend again!"

"You are ill then?" enquired Elizabeth, with more graciousness than
accorded with the brow of the Chancellor.

"I was," replied Louis, smiling ghastily, "but I am perfectly well
now. And if His Excellency can pardon the interruption, I beg he will
proceed."

The statesman's frowns had not been those of displeasure at the young
secretary's revulsionary indecorum. He had seen enough between the
Empress and her favourite, to convince him that, whoever that young
man was, they intended he should be the duped successor of the late
infatuated Count Altheim. All knew that the Countess's object was to
intrude herself again into the society, which had rejected her as an
usurper, because she had conducted herself like a tyrant; and that her
only means were by another illustrious marriage. Sinzendorff cherished
an Austrian's pride against the pretensions of the ignoble Otteline;
whom he knew to be as little elevated in mind, as in birth; though
she had ambition enough to overtop the crown of her mistress. He felt
resentment against the Empress, for such pertinacity in thrusting her
haughty favourite into the ranks of Austrian nobility; he despised the
favourite herself; and fully comprehending the recent extraordinary
action and words of her meditated victim, he determined to let him
see a little deeper into the character of his scheming mistress. When
Louis hastily uttered his apology, Sinzendorff bowed; and receiving
a nod from the Empress, to proceed in his remarks, he turned to the
Countess; whose investigating eyes were fixed on the suddenly pale and
averted face of her lover.

"And so Madam," resumed the Chancellor, with a slight smile and bend of
his head; "you made the _Lady of the Key_ relinquish her trust, _vi et
armis_?"

"I did," replied the favourite, recalling herself with an air of
dignity; "and, finding what you have just read, I saw that mischief
had been intended, and might be again devised against some of the
Empress's agents; and when Her Majesty honoured me with her presence
this evening, I ventured to suggest to her the expediency of shewing
the paper to you."

"You have done warily, Madam!" replied Sinzendorff.

"Admirably!" exclaimed the Empress. "It is always wisdom to learn
what have been the intentions of an enemy, even after he has lost the
battle."

Elizabeth concluded with an observation on the promptitude of
affection; "It acts, while mere prudence only decides."

"I am happy to meet Your Majesty's, and His Excellency's approbation;"
returned the Countess, glancing by a sidelong look at the abstracted
countenance of her lover.--"They add an incontrovertible sanction to my
principle, that real love is a dictating sentiment, whence there is no
appeal. It is omnipotent, or it is nothing. My Sovereign and my husband
(the last word was uttered tremulously) should be alike the arbiters of
my actions, and of my life!"

"And of your honour, too, Madam!" said the Chancellor, with a biting
smile.

Astonished at the manner of this question, and jealous of any implied
censure before the man to whom all her attractions were then directed;
for a moment she suffered the blaze of anger to escape her eyes: Louis
caught the flash in its passage to the statesman, and, like a blighting
lightning, it shot into his soul. Drawing herself up with an air of
proud resentment:--"My honour, Sir," said she, "is consecrated to my
friends; and ill would it serve them, could it be made the slave of
their enemies. Besides," added she, with a scornful smile; "stratagems
are as notoriously fair in the cabinet as in the field!"

"Were we not, all, sooner or later, of your creed, Madam;" returned
the Chancellor, with a bow, "we should make sorry figures in either
contest! and therefore you will pardon an old practitioner, putting a
young disciple a little on the defensive? But while we approve this
dexterous act of diplomacy; to prevent awkward consequences from
enquiries about detention, &c. we must consider how to dispose of the
letter!"

"Give it me, my honest Chancellor," said the Empress, taking it from
his hand, and not very well pleased with his manner to her favourite;
"dead men tell no tales!" and with the words, she lighted the letter at
a candle, and threw the flaming embers into the fender of an incense
stove that stood near.

Louis listened, and gazed, and wondered. Listened and gazed on the
woman so lately transcendantly lovely in his eyes; wondered, that her
voice had ever sounded sweetly in his ear; that her face could ever
have appeared otherwise than harsh and repelling!--Appalled at what he
now witnessed from her, and from them all three; and at the idea of how
he might, a few minutes before, have pledged his faith, beyond recall,
to one of such abhorrent principles; he inwardly blessed the caution
of Ignatius:--and, as he continued for some time to stand more like an
automaton than a living being; he heard no more of the conversation,
till the Empress dismissed the council; and whispered to him at
parting--"To-morrow, your rank will be declared; so, for the last time,
adieu Chevalier de Phaffenberg!"

Louis put her hand mechanically to his lips, and withdrew, without
casting another glance at his so lately worshipped Otteline.
Sinzendorff was satisfied with what he had done towards opening the
eyes of this ingenuous young man; and, without committing himself by
making a remark on what had passed, he wished him a good night at the
door of the gallery.

Louis ran through the other passages; as if, by the swiftness of
motion, he could fly the thoughts which clung like harpies to his
heart. The palace clock struck one; and the extinguishers of the lights
which illumined the avenues to the various apartments, were appearing
in every direction, and rapidly involving the whole in the sombre hue
that suits the hour of rest. He passed through the grand quadrangle to
the portal, at which he had ordered his carriage to be in waiting. At
the moment he put out his hand to open its door, he was seized in the
strong grasp of some person. He could not see by what sort of a man,
the night being profoundly dark, and the lamps over the great gates
too distant to cast more than a gleam, sufficient to shew where the
carriage stood. Before he could make even an attempt for extrication,
the person whispered in his ear,--"On your life, do not return to the
Chateau to-night. It's porch is filled with your father's enemies."

Ere Louis could reply, his arms were released, and he was alone. But
it was the faithful heart of Wharton which had beat against his; it
was his well-known accents which had announced this second warning!
Louis looked around, and listened.--He could see nothing but his dingy
vehicle; hear nothing, but the champing of his horses' bits, as they
impatiently awaited his arrival.

"Coachman," said he, as he threw himself into the carriage; "drive to
the Vien, and there I will give you further orders."

The fatal letter, that dissolved the bright vision of love which a
few hours before revelled in his breast, had proved the stability
of friendship; for it corroborated the timely caution of Wharton's
warning epistle: and therefore Louis could not doubt, (had it been
possible for him to doubt any thing from Wharton,) the veracity of
his present information. Before he cast a second thought on the use
he ought to make of it, he could not refrain from comparing the
steady disinterestedness of his much calumniated friend, with what
they who disesteemed him would have foretold of his conduct in such
circumstances.

"Yes," cried he, "generous Wharton! in spite of all, thou wilt fasten
my soul to thee; for all thy links are honourable! Oh, what had I to
do with love? with women's smiles and sorceries? Why should I give up
my soul to lie in the lap of effeminate sensibilities, when I had such
a friend as this, to occupy my whole heart with noble sympathies? with
manly aspirations? with devotion to virtue alone? I detest myself for
my weakness; for my entrapped vanity! For though I saw her beautiful,
and thought her charming; though I was astonished at such marvellous
beauty, yet it never touched my heart, till she smiled upon me,--and
looked.--I will not think how she looked," cried he, striking his
forehead, "else the devil that she conjured within me, will undo me
again! Oh, woman! syren woman! from the first thou wert a tempter--a
creature to try the virtue of man--to make him feel his bonds to
earth!--while friendship, divine union of soul to soul, asserts to his
immortal spirit, its derivation from heaven!"

Louis was wrapped in these reflections when the coachman stopped, and
demanded further orders.

"I will get out here," replied he, "and you may go to the College
stables."

When the man obeyed, and Louis found himself alone in the street, he
knew it was not far from one of the gates which led to the suburbs.
Notwithstanding the danger which menaced his approaching the Chateau,
not to return to it to-night, was what he could not reconcile to
his sense of the trust reposed in him. It would be abandoning its
repository of state secrets to the depredators; should they, on
missing him this second time, resolve on entering the house itself.
Its situation was perfectly lonesome; and he could not suppose that
persons, so well informed of his movements, could be ignorant that
it contained no other domestics than Gerard, and, lately, his wife.
To leave it to these unwary guardians, when danger was so near, he
believed would be as distinct a desertion of his duty, as to deliver
every paper it contained, into the hands of his father's enemies.
On these grounds, he thought it right to proceed immediately to the
Chateau; but not by a path likely to be invested by the persons planted
to way-lay him. When through the gate, he considered a minute which
would be the securest circuit; and then determined on a sweep by the
river, to the back of the mansion. By this means, he thought he should
unite all that prudence could demand, with his resolution not to allow
the assailants any advantage from an undue care of himself. The way
through the hinder premises of the desolate street of St. Xavier,
was intricate and bewildering. The place having been destroyed by a
ravaging fire, was totally deserted; and Louis trod the devious alleys
without meeting a living soul of whom he could ask a direction to the
water-side. The absolute silence assured him of safety so far; and he
continued to grope his way over the mouldering piles.

When he emerged into the open part of the suburbs, the feeble light
of the stars, being no longer traversed by the deep shadows of close
buildings, afforded him sufficient guidance. The waters of the Danube
glimmered at some distance on his right; while the murky line which
clouded his view to the left, informed him he was within sight of the
avenue which led direct to the ambush he must avoid. He kept on towards
the river; and, having reached its banks, turned along the margin to
the path that led to the Chateau. After half an hour's walk, he entered
on the woodland, which declined from the garden-wall to the Danube; and
when he arrived at the wall itself, he found it a rampart of stupendous
height, and quite perpendicular. But he who had climbed the beetling
rocks of Northumberland, and gazed around from their eagle summits with
the careless eye of security, had no difficulty in surmounting a few
feet more or less of any structure raised by man. The old crumbling
stones made a breach wherever he placed his ascending foot; but he soon
gained the top; and jumping down into the garden, (for on that side the
wall was merely a parapet), ran swiftly through the grass-grown walks
to the terrace before the house.

He found the door open. He entered; but closing it after him, pushed
the strong bolts into their guard; and then felt his way through the
midnight darkness of the passages to the kitchen, where he expected
to find Gerard on the watch for his return. The honest German was
asleep in a huge wooden chair, by the side of a large half-burnt log,
now extinguished; and a lamp, almost reduced to its last drop of oil,
flickered on the table, near an unlighted candle and a flambeau.

Louis lighted the candle; and hesitated a moment, whether he should
awaken Gerard to accompany him to the examination it was proper to
make, or leave him quiet, till he had seen whether the ambuscade were
still in the porch. Thinking it most prudent to go alone, he took
the candle and proceeded to the hall, where he left his light in an
obscure corner, and then without noise opened the great door. With
his pistol in his hand, he crossed the court-yard, and drew near the
gates; but the wood of which they were constructed being very deep and
studded with iron, he listened in vain for a sound from the other side.
Judging that it was their thickness which prevented his hearing some
sign of the intended assailants, and wishing to assure Ignatius that he
had obtained sensible proof of the veracity of this second warning, he
determined to seek further.

He felt his way up the rough stonework of the piers of the arch, and
clambering over it, planted himself behind the great stone scutcheon
of the Phaffenberg arms, which crested its architrave. He strained his
eyes downwards, but could perceive nothing through the double night of
a moonless sky, and the obscuring umbrage of the trees. He thought
he heard a low murmur, as of whispering voices beneath; but he could
not be sure that it was not the wind in the branches. He leaned over
to make closer observation, and had nearly been precipitated into the
midst of his enemies; for a part of the ancient stonework gave way, and
fell with a clattering noise upon the pavement in front of the porch.
Louis had caught by the iron supports of what remained, and so was
saved from too well informing himself of who were below.

The effects of the accident gave him immediate notice of what he
had escaped. Some of the heavy fragments had fallen upon one of the
eves-droppers, whose consequent curses were instant and loud. Other
voices of like import, with wonder how it had happened, were mingled
with commands from one person for caution and silence. Louis wanted
no more to satisfy him, that but for the generous zeal of Wharton, he
might now himself have been lying a wounded wretch under the daggers
of these men. The ruffian who had been knocked down by the fall of the
escutcheon, seemed to be much hurt; for as his companions attempted
to raise him, Louis could distinctly hear him utter the most direful
imprecations against the Sieur Ignatius and the devils in league with
him. The former commanding voice replied in a more conciliatory tone,
"Come, come Spitzberg, this is only a little artillery from the owls!
Don't mind a graze, man; you shall pinion the gallant, in revenge for
these bruises; for I will wait here till sun-rise, rather than again be
baffled by his lucky star."

"I'll pinion him with a witness;" grumbled the fellow, "and make him
confess his heart's blood!"

"Silence, then," reiterated his commander. The order was almost
instantly obeyed; and Louis thinking, after this injunction, he could
learn no more, with a similar caution to that he had observed in
advancing, retreated over the gateway, and descended safely into the
court.

Though he saw no symptoms of an attack on the house, he did not neglect
to make the hall-door perfectly secure, before he took up his candle
to return to the kitchen, and dismiss his vigilant attendant to rest.
He found the lamp burnt out, and Gerard still fast asleep. A rousing
shake of the shoulder, however soon made him start from his seat; and
when his half-opened eyes perceived the object of his watchfulness
standing by his side, he could hardly believe he was not dreaming yet.
Louis bid him go to bed, and he would tell him in the morning how he
had let himself in. Gerard gaped, and stretched his arms, glared at his
young master, and said it was very odd! He had double-locked and bolted
the gates. But his Honour was a scholar of the Sieur Ignatius; and so
he would rather hear no more about it. "Well then, good night!" said
Louis, with a smile; "and since you can explain the matter to your own
satisfaction, it is sufficient for me. Only keep true to your professed
practice, and be sure that all the doors and windows are locked and
barred before you go to rest."

"I saw that before I fell asleep, Sir."

"Then who drew the bolts of the door on the terrace?"

"Nobody comes into the house that way," replied Gerard, pouring oil
into his lamp.

"I did," returned Louis.

The worthy German looked more astonished at this information, than he
had seemed to be when he suspected the learned secretary had passed
through the key-hole, by some of the occult arts of Ignatius; who his
wife had long persuaded her credulous husband to believe, was nothing
short of a wicked necromancer.

Louis followed the sluggish steps of his attendant to every door that
opened from the house; and being satisfied that all were safe, he bade
Gerard good-night, who mumbled out the same, without casting a thought
on the unusual caution of his master. Louis proceeded to the room which
contained all the state-manuscripts that were yet under his care; and
feeling no sleep in his eyes, or in his wishes, he laid his pistols on
the table, and prepared to watch and to meditate until morning.




CHAP. X.


When morning broke, it found the wearied spirit of Louis fast reposing
under his closed eye-lids. He had arraigned himself and his fair
mistress before the bar of his reason, again and again. He fatigued
memory in recalling every word he had ever heard her utter, to judge
how her former sentiments agreed with her late unqualified declaration
on the side of expediency; and, to his consternation he found that he
could recollect no one generous thought from her lips, which had not
been the echo of some opinion from his own. She had never led the way
in noble sentiment. How different was the case in his conversations
with his now far distant Cornelia and Alice! Sympathy reigned
throughout their circle, and it was only to speak first to have the
good fortune to promulgate the thought of every breast.

What then, had the woman he regarded as Perfection's self, had she
met only one compulsive occasion of declaring her unbiassed opinion
on a subject of principle; and had she proved herself divested of
any? Devoted alone to the dominancy of passion, whether it point to
the right or to the wrong? To him, who had been brought up at the
feet of the christian instructor of Lindisfarne, it was no excuse
that devotedness to love, or zeal in friendship, were her motives for
abandoning the rule of human conduct. They were the hills of paradise,
on which man might repose his grateful heart, but there was a heaven
above them; and when its flaming sword passed between him and his
earthly Eden, Louis believed there should be obedience without appeal.

"Oh!" cried he, writhing under the recollections of the last scene
at the palace, "had I known too late, that such thou art, how should
I have withered in those arms?" Louis felt that he would rather be
clasped at once in the icy embrace of death, than take to his bosom the
most beautiful form in nature that was cold to the soul of his soul,
an immortalizing aspiration after virtue and the approbation of his
creator.

"Oh, Otteline," exclaimed he, "a gulph that is impassable, now divides
us!"

As these reflections gradually subsided into sleep, her image kept
its station in his dreams; but it was not as heretofore, when his
visionary fancy used to pourtray her smiling in groves of perpetual
spring:--She now appeared in rugged scenes of affright, accusing him of
faithlessness; and with menacing gestures stimulating unseen personages
to revenge.

He did not awake till the sun had risen far above the horizon; and
then he found himself stretched on the floor, with his head pillowed
on his arm. The cheerfulness of the busy morning hour shone on all
without; while within, the desolation of loneliness and of discomfort,
sat, like a troubled spirit, on every gloomy piece of furniture.

"But this is the day, the blissful day," cried he, "when the
bewildering spell which has so long enwrapped me, will be broken! I
shall again mingle in the social meetings of my fellow-creatures;
and find myself amongst a variety of persons, to whom I can speak,
and rationally companion my mind and my enjoyments.--Hitherto, for
these three months past, I have gone gliding about, fearful of human
glance, or friendly cognizance, till my crazed faculties fancied a
guardian-angel in a beauteous vapour! But now, the mists disperse.
Propitious morning, bright and transparent, I greet your opening!--You
will unfold to me my father! you will release me from the wild and
feverish dream in which my life has wasted, ever since this dreary
mansion became the confidant of my thoughts!"

In contemplating such a happy consummation of his most sacred wishes,
he passed to his own apartment; where, redressing himself with all his
wonted elasticity of spirits, he prepared for the coming events of the
day. On entering the saloon, he found Gerard placing the breakfast
tray. The man told him that Martini was below, with a message from the
Sieur.

"Send him to me," returned Louis, anxious to hear of Ignatius's safe
arrival at Saint Polten's; and eager to be told any thing that might
relate to his father's approach.

Martini obeyed the summons with alacrity. His appearance was full of
gaiety, and his dress, (which he took pains to display, under a large
Hungarian great coat,) was of a splendor that instantly attracted
the notice of Louis, as much from its novelty as its costliness.
The Italian's former habit, was a russet grey, without ornament or
smartness; but this was scarlet, and gorgeously laced with gold.

"Why Martini!" cried Louis, "That is a gala dress!--and to honour the
ambassador, I suppose!--you have left him well; and conducted your
noble master safe?"

Martini was at that moment viewing his own figure, with peculiar
complacency in one of the large mirrors of the apartment. Louis could
have laughed, as he repeated his question to the happy coxcomb.

"I am impatient as yourself, Signor," replied he, "to see the entrance
of the Ambassador. You will then know that I do not wear this livery
without a right!"

"I did not suspect it, my good Martini," returned Louis, "but you
do not tell me when His Excellency is to arrive?" "By five in the
evening, at the _Palais d'Espagne_; and thither I am to conduct you to
await him."

"In a habit as splendid as your own?" asked Louis, with a smiling
nod to his laced vest. Martini coloured, and throwing a proud glance
over his embroidery, exclaimed--"Signor, I have been some years with
my master; and seniority of services, with some great men, has more
consequence than short duties in higher posts."

"I wish it were the rule with all great men!" replied Louis, "And be
assured Martini, I shall always have too much respect for your tried
fidelity to your master, ever to wish to rival you in his good graces.
But come, answer my twice-demanded question; how did you leave him at
Saint Polten?"

"I did not leave him there at all," replied Martini; "he left me last
night; and at parting, gave me a commission to execute a million of
orders, e're he should return."

"Then he went alone?" asked Louis, with an alarm he would not shew; "or
what were his attendants?"

"He might, or he might not have some of the Ambassador's people to meet
him on the road; but on receiving a letter at midnight by Castanos, he
called me to his chamber; and, after giving me his commands, went away,
telling me I should see him no more till we met this evening in the
_Palais d'Espagne_."

"And have you heard nothing of him?"

"Nothing."

"But Castanos accompanied him?"

"I do not know. The surly old Spaniard went out before my master; and
would not answer me when I spoke to him."

Louis was disturbed at this vague information. The threatening language
he had heard last night, and the unseasonable hour of Ignatius's
journey, filled him with apprehensions for the event. But, unobservant
of the troubled countenance which only appeared to listen to him, the
volatile Italian continued the conversation in rapturous descriptions
of the _Palais d'Espagne_; its costly furniture; the splendid retinue
which were placed there to welcome its future lord; and the magnificent
entertainment that was preparing for his reception. "Ah," cried the
transported valet, "who will see us there, and believe we could ever
have endured, for so many months, the hard vigils of that horrid
College!"

"And yet," said Louis, striving to recall his attention from his
growing fears respecting the safety of Ignatius; "it seems to me that
College seclusion, and even its austerities, are better calculated to
please the taste of your master; than the public bustle, and scenes of
luxury, you have just described."

"That may be, Signor!" replied Martini, "but times change men, as men
change the times; so, I make no more manifestoes for my master, than
for myself."

"But I wish you had taken more care of him!" returned Louis, rising
from his seat; "Indeed Martini, after his having been once assailed,
you ought not to have allowed him to set out alone."

"Allowed him!" retorted the Italian, "allowed my master! He has never
been _allowed_ in his life! He has always done just as his will impells
him: and, I know not the man on earth, who dare to say to him, _I
withhold_, or _I allow_!"

"You mistake me. I did not mean to invest you with a lord's controul
over the Sieur; but ought you not to have asked his permission to
attend him? Ought you not to have entreated him, when you knew, by so
recent an experience, that the assassin's poniard lies in wait for his
life?"

"My master commands, and I obey, Signor!" replied Martini, "that is
the duty he requires of me, and he would banish me for presumption,
should I proffer any other."

"He ought to be a god," returned Louis, "to live in such proud
loneliness! But I am too much of a mortal, not to be anxious about his
safety, and I request you to let me have the earliest intelligence
respecting him."

Martini answered carelessly, "that as things were, it was impossible
to learn any thing until the suite should arrive;" "but," added he,
"I shall then have the happiness of conducting you to the _Palais
d'Espagne_, where you will see him."

"Be punctual to your hour;" replied Louis, "for I shall impatiently
await you."

Martini crossed himself, in ratification of his word, and with a step,
light as his spirits, danced out of the apartment.

"Joy, the joy of the heart!" ejaculated Louis, as he looked after
the jocund Italian, "is not gay; it is soul-centered; and calls for
meditation on its own perfection!"

Louis's imagination, kindled by the ardent affection he had ever
cherished in his bosom for his father, was again called forth to set
that image of his idolatry in a halo of the purest lustre. The name of
parent seemed to consecrate the adoration of his heart. There could be
no excess, he thought, in loving him from whom his being and his honour
were derived; and, in the ardour of his enthusiasm, he beseeched the
Almighty to bless him with a virtue worthy of such a father; and, that
in every contest with his passions, he might conduct himself as became
his ancestry on earth, and his nobler origin in heaven!

In hours like these, Louis learnt the full value of the pious offices
to which the instructions of the Pastor of Lindisfarne had habituated
his mind. The heavenly serenity which presided over the heart of the
venerable man, was the best proof of his precepts. "My son," he used
to say, "whether you are agitated with joy, or with grief, let your
first counsellor be the dispenser of both. His gracious spirit is ready
to assuage the burning glances of the one, by the dewy incense of a
grateful heart; and he will illuminate the shadows of the other, by the
starry light of faith and hope."

Louis did not permit the contemplation of future high duties, to dull
the recollection of present ones, however lowly, that were yet to be
performed. He gathered the papers in his writing-room, and confided
them to an obscure closet in a remote part of the Chateau; where, he
believed, they would be secure from either curiosity or depredation,
till he should be commissioned to transfer them to some other custody.

As the time drew nigh for the promised summons to the _Palais
d'Espagne_, his watch was drawn out again and again. But when minutes
only intervened between his wishes and the eventful hour, he held it in
his hand, and paced the room with a beating heart. He heard a step in
the gallery. He flew to the door. It was Martini.

"Is he arrived?" cried Louis, rushing towards him.

"No," replied the Italian. "But haste. I expect the cavalcade every
moment, and your carriage is at the gate."

Louis seemed to have made but one step from the hall to the carriage.
He was seated in it, and leaning breathless against the back, with his
hand over his face, when Martini jumped in by his side. The lively
valet discoursed with his usual fluency, but what he said, his auditor
did not know: he had no outward perception, all was absorbed within.
The vehicle stopped; he thought the horses must have flown, when
Martini exclaimed, "we are at the _Palais d'Espagne_. Signor you must
alight."

Louis aroused himself, and looked around. He was in the court-yard of
a superb mansion, thronged with a crowd of liveried attendants walking
to and fro under the colonades and portico. The spacious doors of the
house stood open. Louis sprang from the carriage, and, without noticing
the men who bowed as he passed, hurried through the great vestibule
after Martini. The valet preceded him up the lofty stair-case to a
range of gorgeous apartments. The first and second were full of Spanish
merchants, resident at Vienna; eagerly awaiting the entrance of an
Embassador, who had obtained the restitution of all the privileges,
which had been wrested from them when the Austrian family lost the
crown of Spain. The next chamber was a saloon of Imperial magnificence.

"Here, Signor," said the Italian, "you must attend the commands of the
Duke de Ripperda." And without another word, he bowed slightly, and
hastened away.

Louis's feelings were wound up almost to torture, during the short
interval between that moment, and the one in which his expecting ear
caught the trampling of horses, and the buz of an approaching crowd.
He rushed to the window, and beheld a train of travelling carriages
filled with the suite of the embassy, sweeping by the great gates
of the mansion, while the court-yard was filled by populace, and an
immense cavalcade in splendid Spanish uniforms. Immediately following
the latter, appeared six horses, richly caparisoned, and drawing a
carriage surmounted with the ducal coronet. Louis saw no more. That
carriage contained his father! He started from the window. The air
resounded with shouts. He pressed his clasped hands on his bursting
heart. A few minutes more, and Martini darted into the outer-room that
contained the merchants. The door was open; and Louis heard him say,
"The Ambassador!" The next instant he beheld a man of such resplendent
aspect--a step, a form, an air; a bowing dignity, as he bent his
gracious head, waving with white plumes to the grateful Spaniards who
thronged around him--that Louis felt at once, it was his Father! His
feet were rivetted to the spot on which he stood; his eyes on that
august figure; but it was with the dazzled gaze of eager, expecting joy.

The crowd separated from before their benefactor, and he entered the
saloon. As he advanced into the room, the door was closed behind
him, and while the unshorn star of prosperity seemed fixed in his
magnificent countenance, he made a hasty step forward, and extended his
arms to his son.

With a cry of joy, in which nothing was articulate but--"My Father!"
Louis precipitated himself towards him, and fell upon his breast. The
Duke strained him to his bosom; but that over-wrought heart had ceased
to beat; and, with a moistened cheek, he pressed the insensible lips of
his too happy son.




CHAP. XI.


Louis re-opened his eyes on a superb couch, in a magnificent
bed-chamber, and surrounded by the physicians who had accompanied the
suite of his father from Madrid. A few minutes more restored him the
possession of all his faculties; and looking around, he did not seek
in vain for the noble form, whose parental embrace was yet warm on his
heart. Seeing that his son was recovered, the Duke made a sign for
every person to leave the room. Louis was going to rise, but his father
checked him by a motion of his hand; and drawing near him, sat down by
his side.

They were now alone. The Duke had taken his hand.--Louis kissed it
reverentially. "Ah, my father!" cried he, "if words could utter all
that is in my soul, towards your honoured self! Revered for your own
sake,--sacred for that of my angelic mother!" Tears bathed the hand,
which he sealed again with a son's devoted lips.

"Louis," said the Duke. Louis started, and looked around, and then
turned to his father. Ripperda silently regarded the enquiring
movements of his son.

"Sir," said Louis, "did I not hear the Sieur Ignatius speak to me?"

"You heard the voice of your father," returned the Duke, and he smiled.
It was the smile which Louis had never beheld on other mouth but one!
He gazed on his father's face with searching amazement. Ripperda
still wore his plumed hat. He took it off, to submit himself the more
completely to the inspection of his son. Louis felt that the voice and
smile were those of the dark-visaged and reserved Ignatius; but the
face, on which he now looked, was refulgent with manly beauty, and the
undisguised consciousness of high desert. Though the resemblance was
so extraordinary in two respects, yet, as in every other point the
dissimilarity was as striking, Louis had no suspicion of the truth; and
concluding that the Jesuit was some illustrious Spanish branch of the
Ripperda family, he earnestly replied,--"but where is the Sieur? Your
voice, my father, is so exactly his, I guess I must revere him as a
near relation, as well as your steadfast friend! But where is he? For
many reasons, I am anxious to know that he is safe."

"He is safe," returned the Duke, "and it gives me no small satisfaction
that you have been obliged to ask that question of me."

"Oh, Sir," replied his son, "though I might not always conduct myself
in the manner the Sieur Ignatius would approve; yet, I had hoped you
could not doubt that I would eventually give him all my reverence."

"I did not refer to that," resumed the Duke, "but, as you had
suspicions respecting the real situation and authority of that man;
and did not misconceive the character of your father; when, through
all the long months in which you obeyed commands that would not suffer
an appeal; and you so often doubted that the Baron de Ripperda could
really submit his son to such uncontrolable delegated power; how did
it happen, that you never suspected the mysterious Ignatius, and your
father to be one and the same person?"

"How?" exclaimed Louis, hardly conscious that he had spoken, while, in
hesitating astonishment his eye hastily scanned the august form before
him. It was indeed like that of Ignatius, majestic in every proportion,
but with more meridian vigour, with a more gracious air of command. No
trace of age discomposed the lofty symmetry of his figure; no mark of
time was visible on his capacious brow; cleared from the darkening dye
with which he had stained his complexion and his hair, his eyes shone
bright as the heavens, which their hue resembled. On the side of his
forehead, under the hair, Louis could discern the scar which had been
inflicted under the portico of the Jesuits' College. He shuddered at
what might have been the issue of that stroke; and thought what would
have been his agony, had he known that it was his father's hand which
closed so deathfully upon his, in the dark chamber of murder. He could
not speak, but his eyes and quivering lip, told all that was passing in
his mind.

"It was necessary," resumed the Duke, "that the negotiation with
Austria should be managed with dispatch and secrecy. The Queen proposed
that I should undertake it in disguise. I left Madrid under an
ostensible rumour, that I was gone to Russia on an affair connected
with the Baltic trade. At the place of usual embarkation, I dismissed
all my attendants, excepting Castanos and Martini. They were essential
to my proceedings. In the same day, I assumed the habit of a Jesuit;
and with my credentials disposed about my person, made my way to
Vienna. Besides the persons I have named, the Empress Elizabeth alone
was privy to my disguise. Her confidence in me inspired the idea of the
negociation; and her own interest in some of its articles warranted my
faith in her secrecy;--our success, you know. But while I was effecting
these great objects for my country, I chose the opportunity to give my
son his first lesson in the science to which fate has destined him.
Louis, I am fully satisfied with all you then performed. But you have
yet much to learn, and more to practise. You are now to be plunged
into the world, to stem the eddies of two contending vortices, duty and
pleasure! Mark me, and write on the tablets of your heart what I am
going to say. Use the one, to serve the other! But let me see that your
choice will be that of Hercules. You will meet many to persuade you to
the contrary; but remember, you may have a prompt guide in him who has
most interest in your welfare; therefore, Louis, I ask your fearless
confidence?"

While Ripperda continued to speak, his son thought within himself; if
my father were disguised in the sombre vestments of the Jesuit, his
spirit was even under a darker mask; I cannot recognise the harsh and
despotic Ignatius, in the mild exhortations of this gracious parent!

"Oh, my father!" exclaimed he, throwing himself on the Duke's bosom,
"you have your son's heart!--and in that, where is the thought that
can be hidden from you!"

Ripperda smiled, "Louis," said he, "these impassioned emotions may be
convincing witnesses of your southern origin!--but you must imitate
your father; and temper your Spanish blood with some of the phlegm
of the country in which you received your education. With one half
of mankind, this sort of feeling would be ridiculed, because not
understood, while those who could comprehend it, would watch it as the
betrayer of your secrets, and manage it to the establishment of their
own. The heart is man's citadel, it is only open country with feeble
woman! And perhaps, there is too much of her nature in all vehement
expressions of sensibility!"

Louis coloured, as checked in heart, he raised himself from his
father's arms. "Sir," said he, "I dared to shew these sensibilities to
my father, because I trusted he knew I was not wanting in the mental
strength to prove myself a man."

"True, Louis; but that is a character which ought not to require
occasional proofs. It should be manifest in the unvarying equability of
your conduct."

Louis looked on his father.

"One of my books is the human countenance;" resumed the Duke, "and
your's is very legible at present. I do not require you to change your
constitution, but to control its impulses. Endearments are rejected
between man and man, because they admit hypocrisy. All can affect to
caress; but the sober aspect of real fidelity is not easily assumed. In
temperate discourse you look into your companion's eyes, and read his
soul. But when the heart is shewn, by the agitation of the nerves, and
the head is thrown on the bosom; how can you then find an avenue to the
mind? Man, therefore, demands of man, the open, unreserved countenance;
and leaves to woman, that caressing enthusiasm, which may either
express tenderness, veil modesty, or mask a deceptious heart. Hence,
my son, we are oftener deceived in love than friendship; but you must
beware of both."

Louis was agitated by the concluding remark. It recalled the image of
the Countess, and the last scene wherein he beheld her, which made
him wish to forget the rest: quelling, however, every appearance of
disturbance, and only returning the kind pressure of his father's hand;
with more emphasis than he intended, he exclaimed, "in all things,
honoured Sir, I will strive to be obedient to your counsels. But do not
despise the expressions of an affection, which would not know a dearer
object than yourself!"

"I do not despise, but I restrain them; for you must be habituated
to self-command. Cherish the confidence that you now possess. Let me
be, indeed, the repository of all your thoughts; and though, in some
cases, I may disapprove, you shall never have cause to remember the
Sieur Ignatius in your father."

The smile which had so often lightened from the dark lip of the
Sieur, now beamed in sun-like radiance over the bright countenance of
Ripperda. Louis could have thrown himself again into his arms, and
pressed to his grateful bosom, the gracious heart of his father; but he
remembered the lesson he had received, and merely clasped his hand to
his lips.

Ripperda passed the remainder of the time in which he sat with his
son, in giving him instructions relative to their present situation
at Vienna. He told him, that in right of his restored rank, he was
now Marquis de Montemar; and to honour his father's services in this
momentous embassy Their Majesties of Spain had appointed him Secretary
of Legation.

"You are young for so responsible an office," continued he; "but the
Queen knows how ably you fulfilled my duties, during my wounds; and
herself suggested to the King, rewarding your zeal by so answerable an
appointment. The courts of both countries are ignorant of this reason;
therefore, you must make up in dignity of deportment, what you want in
years; and, to common eyes, in previous service. The world is governed
by appearance."

Ripperda then spoke on the causes and terms of his re-union with Spain.
And with some astonishment, and more regret, Louis comprehended that
his father had also been received into the pale of its established
church. Louis ventured to express his sentiments on this communication.

"It was my original religion," returned the Duke, "the free-thinking
spirit of independence had betrayed me in youth to the cavils of
Reformation, but time and study reconciled me to the faith of my
ancestors. Two learned Jesuits at Madrid completed the work, and I
am now as good a Catholic as any in the Spanish dominions. The same
masters may convert my son; and then, Louis, I shall have no wish
ungratified."

"I was born a protestant, Sir;" replied Louis, "and I believe I shall
die one."

"Be what your conscience dictates," returned the Duke, "only remember
that your father and your king are Catholics; and you will not fail in
honour to their church."

Louis bowed his head in respectful acquiescence. The Duke soon after
withdrew to his chamber of audience. Many of the old Spanish settlers
in Austria, who had been oppressed there since the changed succession
in Spain, were in waiting, to petition the ambassador of their ancient
country, to interfere with the Imperial court in their behalf.

Titles were never points in the ambition of Louis but as they were
symbols of pre-eminence in nobler respects; he, therefore, was not
insensible to the satisfaction of having the alienated honours of
his race restored to him by the virtues of his father. Such were his
thoughts, when the subject occurred to him; but when the Duke de
Ripperda first left the room, the mind of his son was wholly absorbed
in the happiness of having at last seen, and conversed with, and been
received to the heart of such a parent. That the stern Ignatius, from
whom he had shrunk, while he revered him, and this benignant parent
were one, amazed, while it called forth all his gratitude to heaven for
the preservation of that parent through the perils of his disguise.

As he meditated on the complete change which had taken place in his
father, since he had dismissed the garb of the Jesuit; and recollected
the lessons he had received from him in both characters;--from the one,
on the policy of assuming the thing that is not; and from the other,
the recent injunction to conceal his real feelings;--he conceived a
hope that the Duke de Ripperda might not be so averse to the Duke of
Wharton, as the Sieur Ignatius had thought it expedient to represent.
In his next discourse with his father, he determined to name the Duke;
for in spite of the late reproof to his indulged sensibility, his heart
yearned to utter all its affection and gratitude to the friend, who had
rewarded his repeated apparent insulting avoidance, by twice having
been his preserver.

After the Duke de Ripperda dismissed his Spanish suppliants, he
repaired to a private council of the Austrian ministers, to discuss the
preliminaries to his public reception by Their Caesarean Majesties.
Louis did not leave his apartments, till he heard the wheels of his
father's carriage in the court-yard. It was then near ten o'clock at
night, and the colonades and palace were lit up in every direction with
lamps and chandeliers.

He hastened towards the great saloon, and met the Duke in the
anti-room.--They entered together. Several persons were present,
who greeted Ripperda with an equal air of deference, though with
different degrees of ceremonial obeisance. Their personal ranks were
distinctly marked in each individual demeanour; and when the Duke
introduced Louis as his son, they paid him compliments, which the young
Marquis answered with little more than respectful bows. His father
immediately led the way to the supper-room; and he, with the rest of
the company, followed through a suite of superb chambers lined with
attendants. The entertainment was served in a style to which the Duke
was accustomed, but which was novel to his son. The simple elegance of
his Pastor-Uncle's table possessed every comfort; the hospitable board
at Athelstone and Bamborough groaned with the weight of the feast;
and the feudal state he had seen at the banquets of the chiefs of
Scotland, was that of plenty with barbarous festivity;--but here, all
that was elegant and hospitable, stately and grand, were united in one
assemblage of courtly magnificence.

The manners of Ripperda to his company were like his
entertainment.--None could forget that he was the first man at table;
but the condescending graces of his conversation, and a peculiar
address, to which only the individual to whom it was pointed could be
conscious, charmed all that were present, with a conviction that each
one in particular was his especial favourite. Louis's spirits were so
absorbed in attention to his father's eloquent discourse on a variety
of subjects, addressed to himself and others, that he spoke very
little; and thought the time had flown, when the Duke rose from his
chair, and the party, obeying the signal, bade him adieu for the night.
When Louis was preparing to follow, his father stopped him.

"I am pleased with your general deportment this evening," said he. "The
dignified respect with which you treated those persons, (who, though
holding subordinate situations to yourself in the embassy, are your
seniors in years, and all of them men of family;) while it maintains
your own superiority, will conciliate their good-will; and propitiate
the envy that might busy itself in search of your faults."

"Sir," said Louis, blushing at the implied arrogance, "I had no idea
of shewing any thing to those gentlemen, but simple respect. And I am
sorry that what I had no thought of should have appeared in my manner,
to lessen the expression of that sentiment."

Ripperda shook his head, but not with gravity.

"I know you are a man of nice distinctions; and, that on the meaning of
some terms, you and I have yet to agree. But I will trust your humility
in some respects, to your haughtiness in others."

"My father?" exclaimed Louis. The Duke smiled.

"Ignatius might help us on this subject!" said he; "but I wish to
speak with you about another order of persons. To-morrow you will be
introduced to young men of the highest rank in Spain, the sons of
Spanish Grandees of the first order. Wishing to see Vienna, they are
nominally attached to this embassy; and though residing where they
please, have places every day at my table. These you must treat with
the suavity of equality and confidence; but beware of really giving
them your friendship, or your trust. They are your future rivals with
your sovereign. At present, their pursuit is pleasure. And, while
you steadily keep your eye upon the one aim of your life--honourable
distinction! to these young men you must appear as inclined to folly as
themselves."

Louis's bright eye turned on his father.

"It is even so!" continued the Duke, "you must lull the circumventing
watchfulness of their ambitious fathers, by seeming to share the
dissipation of their sons. Me, they know, they dare not touch. But
were you to appear all that I trust you are or will be, their roused
jealousy would seize the accessible point; and through you, they would
seek to undermine the new superstructure I am raising to the glory of
the house of Ripperda. Seem, therefore, careless of advancement, and
eager for pleasure; and they may quietly submit to the growth of your
early honours, when they are made to believe that your encreasing folly
will render them the last. Use this caution now, and a time is not far
distant, when you may shew yourself in these respects, according to the
sentiments which direct your present questioning looks; if, indeed,
such sentiments will then be yours. They are going through an ordeal.
You must prepare yourself for trials of a different nature from those
you found so galling at the Chateau de Phaffenberg. There, you had
only to endure; here, you are called upon to endure and to resist:--to
endure, nay to court temptation; and to resist, and overcome it. You
must be in the midst of every pleasure that can seduce or intoxicate
the senses of man; and you must see, and taste all, without allowing
yourself to feel it enjoyment. To derive enjoyment, is to yield
independence; and you must be independent of all, but the resources
within yourself."

Ripperda's voice sounded to his son like that of a trumpet. He loved to
feel his strength; to struggle, and to conquer; though the war might
only be in his own bosom. He listened, and longed for an opportunity of
proving to his father, that whatever might be his sensibilities, he had
no effeminacy in his soul. The Duke continued.--

"Your father does all that to which he exhorts you. He draws every
one to his purpose, without permitting any thing to fix a link on
him. From the age of twenty-one, I have been master of myself; and,
from that circumstance, master of every human being, on whom I turned
my eye, to do me service. From being the son of a banished man; and
alienated from the land and honours of my race; I became a soldier, a
statesman, a counsellor of nations! The country which had exiled my
father, solicited the return of his son! And now, the progress of my
undeviating career, has brought me to the restoration of all the rights
of my name; and raised it to a reputation, that is only bounded by the
limits of the civilized world! Louis what I am, you must be."

During this speech, Louis, more than once saw the proud and lightning
glance of the Sieur Ignatius. He felt an answering triumph; for
the throes of an eager emulation were busy in his youthful heart.
Unconsciously, his countenance reflected all his father's; for then,
perhaps, there was not a sentiment within him, that was not absorbed
in the single blaze of ambition. The Duke rose, speaking his last
sentence; and with so undefinable an air of even fearful grandeur,
that, for a moment, he seemed transformed a third time before his son.
But the next instant, turning from the door to which he had advanced,
the awful splendours of his countenance were softened into the
agreeable light of general complacency; and, in his usual tone, he bade
Louis retire to his chamber; and be ready, at a certain hour on the
morrow, to accompany his official presentation to the Emperor.




CHAP. XII.


The suite of apartments in the _Palais d'Espagne_, which were allotted
to Louis, were spacious in themselves, and superb in their furniture;
and the train of attendants and equipages assigned to his service, were
as sumptuously appointed as those of the Ambassador himself. The Duke
had informed him, that all these were as absolutely at his command,
as if he inhabited a separate dwelling. He was to consider himself at
perfect liberty; to appear at the Ambassador's table, only when his
inclination suited; to form what acquaintance he pleased; to go where
he liked: in short, his father resigned all controul over his time or
his actions, excepting the hours which must be dedicated to diplomatic
duties, and any proceedings which might eventually impede the grand
objects of his life.

In the course of conversation, Louis had petitioned his father to take
off the interdict which prohibited his correspondence with his friends
in England. The cause for silence existing no longer, the favour was
readily granted, but guarded with one condition; that he must not write
of Ignatius in any other character than that of a Jesuit. That he was
Ripperda's self must ever be preserved a profound secret. The Emperor
was jealous of female interference, besides being suspicious of the
affections of his wife; and the most vexatious consequences might be
expected, should he discover that the Empress had been an agent in
the late negociation. This, he would more than suspect, were he to be
told that Ripperda had been _incognito_ at Vienna. For the Imperial
Charles was not ignorant of the influence that accomplished Statesman
had gained over the youthful mind of Elizabeth, at her father's
court; and that he had even exercised it to persuade her to accept
the distinction offered her, as consort to the Emperor of Germany.
Early influences are generally lasting ones; and though Charles had
not sufficient sensibility, ever to have felt this in his own person;
he had sagacity enough to have guessed it in that of his wife, had
he received a single hint of but one clandestine meeting between her
and Ripperda, before that statesman made his public appearance at the
Austrian Court.

Louis readily engaged for circumspection; aware that his correspondence
with the friends of his youth, would be on subjects of absorbing
interest to them; purely egotistical:--while his own anxiety was to
know the success of his application to Don Ferdinand; and how far the
general comfort of the family was restored by Alice's released vows.

Before he could lay his head, (which was all awake with life and
happiness,) upon his pillow; he sat down to pour out his full heart
to the venerable confidant of his earliest wishes, to the unerring
guardian of his impassioned soul. As he wrote, the fierce flames of
the wild ambition, which, an hour before, had rushed through his veins
with a proud disdain of every obstacle, gradually subsided under the
gentle ascendancy of the meek spirit with which he now conversed. The
mild precepts of his benign instructor seemed again to whisper in his
ear:--"Fly temptation. But when it pursues, or meets you, arm against
it in the panoply of faith and virtue, and be not overcome. If you sink
in a contest you did not seek; you may be pitied, and forgiven. If you
fall in a conflict you provoked, men will deride, and God condemn you!"

Louis shuddered at his late presumptuous impulse; and blessing the
pious cares, which could influence his mind, even at so wide a distance
of place and time, he continued to write. With what a reposing,
smiling rapture at his heart, did he bend over the sheet on which he
was now permitted to transmit all the feelings of that heart to the
most indulgent, as well as wisest of friends!

A few words at the beginning, had explained his silence, by
acknowledging, (without particularizing circumstances,) the mysterious
nature of the affairs in which he had been engaged:--and then followed
all the affection of a son; all the frank communications, where secrecy
did not bind him, that would be grateful to the venerable man. But
there was one subject he did not dare to touch on:--whenever it rose
before him, he turned away, as from a lovely but a condemned spirit.
His heart thrilled and trembled; and pressing it, he exclaimed--"I need
not seek a contest!"

When he had closed this long epistle, with entreaties for frequent
communications from the dear inhabitants of the Pastorage, whether
they were at Morewick or in Lindisfarne; he addressed a letter to Sir
Anthony, as full of duty, as of descriptions and remarks calculated for
his entertainment: and then, retiring to his pillow, found, what he did
not expect, an immediate and sound sleep.

The morning brought Martini into his apartment. He came with a note
from Ripperda, informing his son, that the Emperor would receive the
Embassy at noon; he must therefore be in the saloon, habited in the
Spanish mode, and according to his rank, half an hour before the time
of going to the Imperial Palace. Louis was finishing his packet for
England, when the confidential valet presented his message. He read
the letter, and wrote his reply of obedience. Martini took the answer,
with a bow of profound respect; but it had nothing of the obsequious
homage, which degrades the person who pays it, without honouring him
on whom it is bestowed. "Your Excellency will pardon, I trust," said
he, "my former omissions of due reverence to the son of my master!
I was ignorant, until now, that I attended other than the Chevalier
de Phaffenberg; and according to the commands of the Duke, I was to
consider him, as no more than his secretary, and the poor _cadet_ of a
ruined house. But it was a noble one: and I trust, my Lord, that though
I might fail in honour to the Duke de Ripperda's son, you will not
accuse me of insolence to the Chevalier de Phaffenberg?"

"Worthy Martini!" cried Louis, rising from his seat, and shaking
the hand of the valet, with true English warmth; "I have nothing to
complain of from you. I honour your fidelity to your master, and your
regard for the fallen in fortune. I am proud to claim equality with
such sentiments! From this hour consider me as your friend."

Martini, with the ardour of his country, threw himself on his knees,
and fervently kissed the hand that pressed his; then hastily rising,
with glistening eyes, and his hands clasped on his breast, he bowed and
hastened from the apartment.

This little incident particularly pleased Louis. He had found a simple
and a generous feeling in the confidential servant of a statesman;
while all else, above, around, in that transforming sphere, seemed
devoted to selfishness, or to artifice, of however refined a fabrick.
Musing on this, he submitted himself, without discussion, to be habited
according to the fashion of his new country.

For Ripperda himself, when his son met him in the saloon, he was
one bright effulgence of princely honours. His sword, his belt, his
gartered knees; and all the jewelled insignia of Spanish chivalry,
glittered on his person. The diamond coronet of his ancestors encircled
his cap, surmounted by the crest of his family, a golden eagle, under
a plume of snow white feathers.--They waved before the bird of Jove,
like fleecy clouds in the face of the sun. But gorgeous as were these
ornaments, they were not so brilliant as the countenance they were
placed to adorn; the brightness of a high soul was there, that seemed
rather to suffer the decorations of rank, than to require them.

The Duke was surrounded by the young Spanish Grandees, in the habits of
their quality; but varied in colour and decoration, according to the
caprice of the wearer. The real officers of the embassy were arrayed in
one sumptuous uniform, and all distinguished with the golden cross of
_Montesa_.

Ripperda presented his son to the nobles. Most of them, though young
men, were Louis's seniors; but they saluted him with that respect
which is usual in despotic governments, to persons holding powerful
stations under the Sovereign. The intimation his father had given him
of their general pursuits, did not incline him in their favour; and,
with, perhaps, too lofty an air of cold politeness, he met their first
advances to social acquaintance. Some of them mistook this dignity
of principle, (which acted without intention,) for the insolence of
inflated vanity, at being placed above his compeers; and they who
thought so, eyed him with resentment. Others conceived it to be mere
reserve of disposition:--for none could derive it, from awkward shyness
in a new situation. Every thing that Louis said or did was with a grace
peculiar to himself; an ease, that spoke the high-born man; and a mind,
conscious that no adventitious circumstance can really add to the
consequence of him who builds his character on virtue.

The King and Queen of Spain had issued orders, that no expence should
be spared to give their Embassador every dignity in the eyes of the
Imperial Court; and the equipages and retinue which composed the
suite of Ripperda, struck the inhabitants of Vienna with amazement; as
nothing had equalled the pomp of this, his public entrance, since the
coronation of the Emperor.

The audience chamber was crowded, and the foreign ambassadors were
there, to mark the reception of the Spanish plenipotentiary. Charles
received him with testimonies of respect he had never bestowed on any
other Embassador; and which filled those present with apprehensions of
what those secret articles might be, which thus humbled the Emperor
of Germany before the minister of his former rival. Louis, and the
Spanish noblemen, were presented by Ripperda. Charles said a few words
of ceremony to the young grandees, but signalized the son of the
Embassador by his particular notice; and, in a lowered voice, that none
else might hear, complimented him on the talents he had shewn for
negotiation, during the illness of the Sieur Ignatius.

At the meeting of the council the preceding evening, Ripperda had
intimated to the Chancellor Sinzendorff, that the Chevalier de
Phaffenberg (whom the Chancellor had taken occasion to praise,) was
his son; and in the morning Sinzendorff had explained the circumstance
to the Emperor, with his remarks on the genius and strait forward
integrity of the young politician.

When His Majesty turned to withdraw, he told the Spanish Embassador,
that the Chancellor would conduct him to the Empress, who was in
readiness to receive the letter and picture he brought from the Prince
of Spain, to the Arch-Duchess, her daughter.

As soon as the Emperor had quitted the chamber, Ripperda and his
suite followed Sinzendorff towards the grand saloon. As Louis turned
to obey, his heart anticipated the emotions he should feel in again
seeing Otteline; in again meeting the persuading looks of her gracious
mistress and confidant. But how different did the Imperial Elizabeth
appear in her court, to the benignant Princess, who was all ease and
smiles in the _boudoir_ of her beautiful favourite! She sat coldly
regal, with the Austrian ladies of rank, standing behind, and on each
side of her.

When the Duke de Ripperda approached the Imperial chair, Louis
observed the reserved majesty of Elizabeth's countenance dilate into
an expression of proud exultation: it haughtily swept the circle,
while she stretched out her hand to the Spanish Embassador, as bending
on his knee, he presented the royal packet. She half rose to receive
it, and then her lips and eyes beamed all the graciousness upon his
father, which Louis had so often felt shining on himself. But there
was a glowing flush on her cheek, and a something softer in her eye,
when the Duke pressed the hand to his lips, which she had given for
the salute of ceremony. Louis then saw, it was the friend, and not
the minister, that Elizabeth of Brunswick welcomed from her Imperial
throne; and, at the same time, he could not but notice, that the
position of his father, rather spoke the air of a Prince at the feet of
beauty, than the prostration of a subject to exalted power.

"It is the mind alone," thought Louis, "that debases actions, or
ennobles them! One man would crouch and cringe like a slave, while this
bends his knee, like Alexander before a sister princess!"

Had Louis pursued his observation, he would have understood that it was
the dignity and peculiarity of this homage, which made it so estimable
in the eyes, even of an Empress.

When the Duke presented his son and the Spanish Nobles, Louis cast
down his eyes; which, indeed, had never wandered from his father
and herself: so fearful was he of encountering that face, whose
resistless charms were only too apparent to his imagination. What
the condescending Elizabeth said to him, he knew not, neither was he
conscious how he had gone through the ceremony of presentation, till he
felt her ivory fingers gently press his hand, in silent congratulation
of what she supposed was then busy in his heart. He dreaded the purport
of this worldless language; and with a tremor pervading his whole body,
he rose from his knee, and falling back into the Spanish group, tried
to recover self-possession.

Elizabeth continued for some time in conversation with Ripperda; and
then giving her hand, according to usage, to the Chancellor to lead her
out; as she passed near where Louis stood, she descried him, and spoke
to her conductor. He immediately called to the Marquis de Montemar, to
attend Her Majesty's commands. Louis obeyed, in renewed disorder; and
with a gracious smile, she gently whispered. "You attend the Duke de
Ripperda this evening to the _Favorita_. It is the Dowager Empress's
name-day; and you will see friends and foes. The Duke has received my
permission to bring the young Spaniards to be presented to my daughter."

Louis bowed, and Her Majesty, with her own fair hand, gathering her
robe from the pages who held it, disappeared by a small door into the
private apartments.

When he looked round, to rejoin his father, he saw him discoursing
with the circle of ladies who stood nearest the throne. Ripperda had
already introduced his young grandees to the group; but on some of the
ladies naming his son, he beckoned Louis, who immediately approached,
and was presented also. His rapid glance soon convinced him the looks
he feared were not present; and relieved by this certainty, the effect
was instantly apparent. The anxiety which so lately had embarrassed
his words and actions, disappeared; and restored to ease, he replied
with his usual ingenuous politeness, to the courtesy of the ladies who
welcomed him to the court of Vienna. The Duke soon after took his leave
of the fair assembly, and followed by the young Spaniards and his son,
returned to the _Palais d'Espagne_.

It was the vernal month of May, and nature appeared in her robes of
youth and laughing beauty. The tender azure of the sky was tinged
with blushing radiance, while the soft green earth lay in enamelled
smoothness, under the umbrageous canopy of trees and shrubs, diffusing
odours from blossoms, flowers, and balmy zephyrs, laden with the warm
breathing of the reposing sun.

As the carriage which contained Louis drove along the thronged _Prato_,
towards the palace of _la Favorita_, he descried the distant turrets
of the Chateau de Phaffenberg. They stood gloomy and desolate, and he
passed them by, like one awakened from the dead, looking aside on what
had been his tomb. The Danube was now rolling its majestic flood, broad
as a lake around the island of the palace. The company crossed to it in
gay boats, borne along with silken sails, or rowed by silver oars, and
when they stepped on shore, they found the whole a scene in fairy land.

On a raised platform, in the midst of a verdant lawn, round which
the beauty and fragrance of all the seasons were collected, sat the
Dowager Empress. Most of the Imperial family, excepting the Emperor
and the Empress, were seated near her. Many of the court were also
there; and in the brilliant circle Louis recognised the Duke of Wharton
standing behind the chair of the Electress of Bavaria. The eye of
Wharton seemed to wander carelessly over the advancing party, without
distinguishing any particular object. But the buz that announced the
Duke de Ripperda attracted the notice of the Electress. Her curiosity
was excited to see this formidable minister, whose influence had
induced his royal master to overthrow her dearest schemes, by affixing
the guarantee of Spain to the pragmatic sanction. She looked at
his commanding figure, with lightning in her eyes; and as Ripperda
approached to pay his respects to the Dowager Empress, she whispered in
the bending ear of Wharton. The next instant her rapid glance caught
the face of Louis, and fixed there. Again she whispered Wharton. What
she said, and what the answer, was completely between themselves;
all passed in so low a voice; but Louis heard the Duke laugh in his
reply, as, without looking up from his folded arms, he leaned on Her
Highness's chair. Had Louis distinguished what was said, he would
have learnt that the Electress recognised him immediately; and with
astonishment, pointed him out to her companion, when she heard him
presented to her illustrious grandmother as the son of Ripperda.

"Could Your Highness believe it possible," replied Wharton, "that the
fair Altheim would cast her tendrils round a fallen pillar?"

The Electress did not withdraw her persevering gaze, though she ceased
her whispers, for the Emperor and Empress approached from the house.
The Duke de Ripperda was instantly engaged with the Imperial pair; and
soon after Charles, putting his arm through his, turned with him to
the opposite side of the lawn. As Elizabeth was passing Louis, to give
her hand to the Dowager Empress, who wished to view the scene from
the palace windows, she desired him to offer his arm to the venerable
Princess. He hastened to bear his share in supporting the infirm
footsteps of old age; a duty, which, to all ranks, was sacred with him;
and during the walk, as the aged Empress was deaf, Elizabeth informed
him, that the Arch-Duchess Maria Theresa being suddenly indisposed, the
Countess Altheim attended her. "But," added the gracious speaker, "hope
is the lover's comforter!"

She thought it was the ruby light of love that passed over the cheek of
Louis, as she spoke; and she smiled as she placed the Empress in her
chair, and dismissed him to the lawn. Trying to shake from his burning
complexion, the evidence of his weakness, with a swift step he returned
towards the platform. Wharton stood there, though the Electress had
moved into the more general circle of the company. The Duke was talking
with two or three persons, amongst whom was the Count Leopold Koninseg,
a colonel in the Austrian service, and the nephew of the Princess de
Waradin, a Hungarian lady, to whom Ripperda had presented his son in
the morning at the drawing-room. As Louis was hastening to the group
that contained his friend, and his new acquaintance, the Princess de
Waradin, leading a blooming girl of fifteen by the hand, interrupted
him. The noble matron asked him if he had yet engaged himself for the
dance. On his answering in the negative, she presented him to her
daughter, with the compliment, "that there was no person with whom
she should be so satisfied to see her Amelia make her first public
appearance at court, as the son of the Duke de Ripperda."

Louis made a suitable answer to this politeness, and the pretty
Hungarian received his bow with a smile. Other ladies, to whom also
his father had introduced him in the morning, now drew around the
graceful de Montemar. Invitations to various assemblies, were given
to him by a multitude of rosy lips; and for half an hour before the
dancing began, he was enchained in the fair circle; not ungrateful for
the flattering distinction, but longing for the moment of release,
when he might at least, give one heart-felt pressure of the hand, to
the friend who had twice saved him from a personal encounter with his
father's enemies. He often turned his face from the smiling dames, with
whom he was conversing, to seek a glance from his kind preserver; but,
though Wharton looked hither and thither, in talking with the passing
groupes, a perverse fatality seemed to prevent his eyes ever falling
where Louis stood. Impatience encreased with disappointment, and almost
ready to break from the throng that detained him, he gladly heard the
music sound from an orchestra, near the arcades of the palace; and,
immediately a chamberlain approached, to summon the dancers to the soft
green before the imperial windows. The fair Amelia extended her hand
to her partner, who took it with redoubled pleasure on seeing, by the
direction in which the company turned to the rural ball-room, that he
must pass close to the spot where Wharton stood.

As the gay procession moved on, the Duke turned carelessly on his heel,
which withdrew him a little from the path, but not so far off, but that
Louis heard Leopold Koninseg ask him whether he knew the Marquis de
Montemar.

"Who is he?" negligently replied the Duke.

"The Spanish ambassador's son," replied Koninseg, "shall I introduce
him?"

"No," returned Wharton, "he seems very well engaged; and I am not
ambitious of the acquaintance."

Louis was startled at these words; but recollecting the Duke's
situation with the Bavarian faction; and the risks he had already run,
between its revenge and his friend's safety; he soon comprehended that
prudence had suggested this apparent indifference.

The dance began; and in its exhilarating maze, of motion, music, and
sparkling beauty, Louis found all that bouyancy of spirits return, with
which he used to animate the smaller, but not less festive circles
of his native land. The ethereal grace of his movements attracted
admiration in a country where the graces of dancing are a science; and
the Electress, again turning to Wharton, who had accompanied her to the
flowery lists of the waltzers, desired him to observe the extraordinary
elegance of the Anglo-Spaniard. Wharton saw that several of the young
grandees were standing near, and observed one of them cast a disdainful
glance on the Electress, when she made the remark. Princess de Waradin
was also a spectatress; and while her eye complacently followed the
airy flight of her daughter on the sustaining arm of Louis, she took
up the Electress's observation, and replied, "there is not so fine a
dancer in the circle, as the Marquis de Montemar?"

"Because he happens to have the best figure in the circle," returned
Wharton, "and a well-made man cannot be awkward if he would."

The Electress smiled, and whispered the Duke; "you must get him amongst
us!"

"Crown me for Actaeon, when I do!"

Wharton did not require an interpreter to the thickening clouds on the
brow of the young Spaniard, who, muttering something to his companions,
their looks suddenly reflected his, and they all turned abruptly and
haughtily from the ring. The Electress drew close to the garlands,
which composed it; and ordering a chair to be placed there, sat down,
and conversed at her ease with the groupe around. Louis's eyes often
glanced towards the animated Duke. But his favour with Her Highness
was too visible, to allow surprise that he did not give attention to
any one else. Indeed, he appeared as careless of remark, as he seemed
pleased with his situation, and hovered near her with the familiarity
of perfect confidence. Her circle of ladies courted his smiles, as
the guarantee of her's; and he trifled, and talked with them all, as
his humour dictated. But in the midst of this gallant badinage, the
men regarded him as something more than the gay _Cicisbeo_, who had
followed the illustrious mourner from her widowed pilgrimage through
Italy. They were aware of his political genius; that the lap of beauty
could not lull it to repose; and with less surprise than wonder, they
contemplated certain changes in the mutual relations of states, which
they knew must have arisen from him; but when or how his manoeuvres
were devised and executed, they could not guess by observation on
himself. For in all situations he seemed equally open and disengaged.

Ripperda passed behind the Bavarian party, surrounded by the foreign
ambassadors. The Electress was mortified at the sight:--"Behold the
flatterers!" cried she, to her gay companion.

"Dogs will worship the moon!" answered the Duke, carelessly: "and their
hymn is desperate howling."

Without farther thought of what covered the polished brow of his
mistress with heavy frowns, he turned to rally one of the young ladies
of honour, for having refused to dance. The Bavarian almoner stood
near. He was the only person, excepting the Electress, who knew that
the late rupture between France and Spain was the work of Wharton.
Marvelling within himself at the volatility of the man, who had so
circumvented the gravest heads; and at the jocund indifference with
which he beheld the triumph of his political adversary; the worthy
ecclesiastic, with a half-reproaching smile, touched his arm.--"I
believe, Duke," said he, "it is all one to you, whether you fire your
own, or another's territories; from very _gaiete de coeur_, as either
burn, you play!"

"Weeping at calamities is to double them," replied Wharton; "and I
never had any passion for sackcloth."

"No," replied the Electress, "I believe your perversity, enjoys the
wreck that has been made of your own plans!"

"When the wind blows, he is but a fool who sits down to cry in the
blast! common-sense, my sweet Electress, draws his cloak about, and
walks merrily through the storm."

"But he does not scoff at the destructive elements!" replied the
ecclesiastic; "may not the Duke de Ripperda think disparagingly of so
smiling a rival?"

"My good Lord Almoner," returned Wharton, "I care not what Duke de
Ripperda thinks. There is a season for all things! And when I am with
the fair, I forget the follies of other men, and content myself with my
own."

Whatever were his motives with regard to Louis, no act of recognition
passed, either from his voice, or his looks, towards him, during
the whole evening; and Louis, taking the tone from a judgment his
enthusiasm made him deem infallible, behaved towards him with the same
reserve. They often approached each other in the change of amusements;
they sometimes passed close; and then the heart of Louis beat, and his
cheek glowed, as he felt the dear attraction. As he was handing the
daughter of the Princess de Waradin to the supper-room, he saw Wharton
at a distance in one of the vestibules, conversing with the Count de
Patinos; a young man of the highest rank amongst the Spaniards who had
joined the embassy of their country.

The Electress and her party did not stay supper. It was in a style
answerable to the august _jour de fete_; and at a late hour, the
Emperor and Empress rose. Before Louis could pass from the table at
which he had sat, to join his father, who had been the distinguished
personage at the Imperial board, he was intercepted by a moving and
involving throng. In short, he soon learnt, that from Ripperda's
unexampled favour with the reconciled sovereigns, his son was become an
object of calculating and universal attention. Some of the Spaniards
had even drawn off from the proud side of de Patinos, and glided
towards Louis; to gain, by his means, a freer passage into the circles,
which seemed so eager to make him their center.

De Patinos was young, handsome, and ambitious. He was the son of
the Marquis de Castallor, and the near kinsman of the venerable
Grimaldo, the present ostensible minister in the cabinet of Spain:--and
therefore, to see the almost regal honours paid to the Duke de
Ripperda, whom he affected to consider as only the agent of that
minister, excited jealousy for his own consequence, reflected from
Grimaldo. But, that himself should be overlooked and disregarded in the
presence of what he called the upstart Marquis de Montemar, because he
was the son of this arrogant Ripperda, inflamed him with a hatred, that
only waited opportunity to shew its malignant nature.

As wealth and rank are considered the corner stones of happiness in
this world of selfish enjoyment, it was not to be wondered at, that
a marriage with such a foreigner as Louis de Montemar, should be
considered an advantageous object, by many of the most illustrious
families at the German court. The restoration of Ripperda to his
Spanish rights had given him rank with the first nobles in any land.
His blood was superior to most of them, as it flowed from the mingled
current of three lines of princes. And his riches, from his restituted
property in Spain and the Indies; from his former fortune, transported
from the Netherlands; and daily redoubling, by the exhaustless
resources of commerce; were beyond the powers of calculation. It was
not, then, a subject of surprise, though it might be of envy, that the
heir of all this wealth and honours should be a point of ambition to
the proudest mothers in Vienna; and as the expectant was also handsome
and accomplished, it was not a wonder that many of the daughters smiled
upon the young de Montemar. He saw many fair, and more elegant; but
none so fair, none so conspicuously elegant, as the graceful Otteline,
whose absent form floated in fond regrets at the bottom of his heart.
He sighed to think, that the spirit was not so fair as its temple; and
then he sighed again, as he checked himself for the repining pang which
accompanied the remembrance.




CHAP. XIII.


The two following days were passed in official arrangements, previous
to the execution of certain articles in the treaty, which the Spanish
sovereigns were impatient to have performed. Ripperda spent the
evenings with the Austrian ministers, and Louis at the Princess de
Waradin's. But on the morning of the third day, when he was sitting at
his post, and making minutes of some preliminaries, which the Emperor
demanded, before the actual betrothment of his eldest daughter to
Prince Carlos of Spain; the Empress, who was in her husband's private
cabinet at this discussion, stood over Louis as he wrote; and when he
had finished his memorandums, she said in a low voice,--"My daughter is
now well enough to bear company. You will see her and Otteline in my
drawing-room to-night? and you must impress her as favourably of your
Prince, as you have fixed her governess in behalf of yourself."

Elizabeth turned away; and Louis saw neither the paper that was before
him, nor the royal presence leaving the room. He was lost in the tumult
of his thoughts, till his father, touching his arm, told him the
council was broke up.

When Ripperda received the invitation for the evening, for himself and
his son, he asked permission to include the Count de Patinos in the
proposed honour; as it would gratify King Philip to have the imperial
notice extended in succession to the young grandees in the suite.

"But never to the exclusion of de Montemar," replied the Empress; "I
regard him as my own _eleve_. Do with the rest as you please, Duke; for
you know the pleasure I have in promoting your interest." Ripperda
knew all the avenues to the noble heart of Elizabeth; and he made her a
reply, that lit up her gracious countenance with an emotion direct from
the soul.

Louis walked as in a dream, from the hour in which he was told he
should meet Otteline, to the moment of his going to the palace. The
imperial saloon was full, though not crowded. Having paid his homage
to the Empress, he turned round, as she directed him, while certain
well-known sounds were vibrating on the harp. The object he expected
met his eyes. The instruments of music were in an adjoining apartment,
opened to the saloon by a canopied arch; and Otteline stood there, just
risen from the harp, and attending to something that was addressed to
her by the Archduchess Theresa, who was seated at a harpsichord. She
wore the portrait of her future husband, Prince Carlos, suspended at
her neck; and the timid bride was evidently preparing to sing to the
Emperor her father, who stood near her. Lovely as she was, in the first
morning of her youth; her soft blue eyes turned upwards, with a gaze of
almost infantine attention upon the face of her beautiful instructress;
yet the eye of the beholder could not rest upon the blooming girl. That
beautiful instructress seemed nothing less than a being of a superior
order. She leaned over her like some bright creature of the air,
hovering near her sweet but earthly charge. Louis felt a mist pass over
his memory. The abhorrent words of her lips, which he thought must burn
before him, in accusing characters, for ever, flew at once from their
station; and his heart rose in his bosom, with an impulsive violence
to throw himself at her feet, and forget all the world and himself, in
the rapturous moment of swearing that he loved her. But, if celestial
spirits do indeed surround the path of those who would contend for
heaven; the guardian seraph of Louis, at that moment breathed upon his
dissolving soul, and strengthened it to virtue. With a bitter contempt
of his weakness, he tore his eyes from the dangerous contemplation;
and followed his father and the Empress, to pay his respects to her
Imperial husband.

While the Emperor discoursed with Ripperda, Elizabeth addressed her
favourite.

"Otteline," said she, with a smile, "I hope you will grant as
honourable notice to the Marquis de Montemar, as that with which you
graced the Chevalier de Phaffenberg!"

The Countess looked up, with a blush bright as the tints of Aurora; and
while she sought to meet the eyes of Louis, which were covered with
their "veiled lids;" she softly answered,--"The Marquis de Montemar
is too well convinced of the esteem in which I held the Chevalier de
Phaffenberg, to require that I should encrease my consideration of
him, under any other name."

He bowed in silence. But Her Majesty, seeing the Emperor and Ripperda
walk together into the adjoining room, as she turned to follow them,
added--"De Montemar, I leave you to assist the Countess in selecting a
duet for my daughter to sing."

This command Louis could not disobey; and though a quivering fire shot
through all his veins, he was not the less determined to persevere in
the assumption of a coldness which his reason dictated; and which, he
trusted, would so pique the sexual dignity of Otteline, that he should
never be demanded to a second interview. With obedient haste, and
to occupy himself, he began to turn over the music books. The young
Princess took hold of the Countess's arm, and artlessly whispered.--

"Do ask the Marquis de Montemar, whether Prince Carlos is really like
this ugly picture!" Otteline whispered in return:--"I am sure the
Marquis de Montemar will be honoured in replying to Your Highness; and
he will tell you that Prince Carlos is very handsome."

None of this was spoken so low, but that Louis heard it all; and the
Arch-duchess, holding up the jeweled portrait, said to him in a timid
voice:--"Do tell me, if he is so very disagreeable?--I could never
endure to leave my beautiful mamma, and charming governess, to look
always upon so frightful a face as this!"

Louis glanced at the picture; which was, indeed, the portrait of a
plain, but it was a sensible countenance. The ingenuous eyes of the
Princess, turned from it, to those of Louis, with anxious enquiry.

"I never saw the Prince," replied he, "But Your Highness must pardon
me, if I do not think this portrait disagreeable? It expresses a noble
mind; and without such an expression, the finest features in the world
would want the soul of beauty."

Maria Theresa looked earnestly in the face of Louis. She had never done
so before; and then turning her eyes again on the picture, she drew a
deep sigh.

"Come will not Your Highness sing?" asked the Countess, presenting a
duet.

"No," replied she, "I shall go, and beg mamma, to permit you to sing
alone;" then whispering her, as she was leaving her seat, she put her
arm round her neck, and softly said--"Oh, my happy Otteline! He that
you are to marry, has both a handsome and a noble countenance!"

Louis could not escape hearing this; nor seeing the quick pressure with
which the Countess strained her young charge to her breast; who in some
apprehension that she had been overheard, broke away, with a slight
blush tinging her lilly complexion.

He was now alone in the music-room, with her, whose presence he
felt in every nerve. The parting whisper of the Princess; and the
responsive action of the Countess, followed by a fluttering sigh, which
now vibrated in his heart, made him tremble for himself. He knew not
how to fly, and he felt it was perilous to remain. Hastily closing
a music-book, he said with a forced smile, "Since the Arch-duchess
declines singing, my duty here terminates!" and with a hurrying bow, he
started from the instrument.

Otteline was, now, in a no less agitated state than himself. She read
in his averted looks, and haste to leave her, that she was no longer to
consider him as her lover; and, not suspecting the real cause, her own
ambitious views suggested to her, that his father's higher prospects
were the origin of this changed demeanour. Aware that carrying matters
with too lofty a hand had lost her the son of the Marquis Santa Cruz,
she determined on a different mode with that of Ripperda; and while
a large drapery of the curtained arch was yet between him, and the
observation of the company in the saloon, she ventured in rapid but
suppressed accents, to murmur out--"Oh, Marquis, why are you not the
obscure De Phaffenberg?--Then, we should not have met:--or never parted
thus!"

Her voice had arrested him. Her words transfixed his heart. He stood,
but he did not speak. She resumed.--

"It is as I foresaw. My enemies have prevailed!--Your father objects
to my humble birth; and you turn from me, to seek a more illustrious
bride?"

"No Madam," returned Louis, believing himself now called upon to pass
the final sentence upon his relapsing passions; "my father has not yet
spoken to me on the subject. Neither do I seek, or wish, for any other
bride:--For--Oh, Otteline," cried he, turning on her a look, in which
all the contention of his soul was declared; "Where should I find one
so lovely?--One, to whom I could more intensely devote this adoring
heart? But yourself has separated us for ever!"

She turned pale as the pearls which bound her forehead.

"Then it is my enemies!" cried she, "But if they have coupled my name
with Don Ferdinand d'Osorio's, in any tale of slander; believe it as
false as that, which the Electress of Bavaria has published to the ruin
of my fame. You know how I am the victim there! And this is invented,
to put you from making the only restitution that can redeem me to the
envious world!"

The vehemence with which she spoke, and the mention of Don Ferdinand's
name, connected with her own, cast a new and an appalling light upon
the apprehension of her lover. He recollected that Don Ferdinand had
left Vienna, to rid himself from, what his father called, a disgraceful
entanglement of his affections; and to find it possible that Otteline
might have been its object, confounded all his faculties. The broad
appeal to his honour, in the last sentence of her remonstrance, did not
the less convince him, that all was not right, in the tenacity with
which she urged bonds on him, he had shewn himself determined to break.
Braced, therefore, in his resolution, in a collected voice, he briefly
answered.

"No, Madam; I have heard no slanderous tales against you. Until this
moment, I was not aware that Don Ferdinand d'Osorio was even known to
you; and had it been told to me, by any but yourself I should have
spurned the information. My heart alone is your accuser."

The renewed emotion, with which the latter words were uttered, and
even their import, revived the colour of hope upon the cheek of the
Countess. She thought, if his heart alone were her accuser, she had
also an advocate there, that would be too powerful for so unassisted
an adversary. She smiled bewitchingly, for it was through rushing
tears; and laying her hand on his arm, said in a tender and trusting
voice,--"And what does it allege against me?"

Louis did not look towards her. Her touch ran like wild-fire through
his veins; but the sensations which shook him, only rendered him more
desperate to fulfil his resolution; and he exclaimed, "that I did love
you--that I adored you!--that I was grateful, for the regard with which
you honoured me,--I believe I shall carry the scars on my heart, to my
grave:--but, with me, there is a power beyond love--that of virtue!
I would sooner have this heart torn from my body, or all it delights
in, buried from my sight; than purchase their enjoyment, by admitting
one stain on my conscience. When I last saw you, in the conference
with the Chancellor and the Empress, you declared, and proved yourself
of an opposite opinion! You violated the sacredness of a seal; and
you defended that breach of honour, on principles which destroy me to
remember!"

Louis stopped, and covered his bloodless face with his hand.--The
Countess, though paralyzed to the heart, by so unexpected a disclosure,
gathered hope from the pale statue that uttered it. "His frozen virtue,
will relent!" thought she; and clasping his arm, with the warm pressure
of doubting agitation, she tremblingly said, "Oh, de Montemar, is such
the reward of my self-sacrifice. What am I to expect from this exacting
virtue?"

"That I may die,"--replied Louis, with a strong effort; "but that we
meet no more."

This was the axe to the ambitious Otteline; and with a shriek, she
could not restrain, she staggered, and fell prostrate on the floor.

The convulsive cry, and the confused noise of her fall, were heard in
the same moment, in the adjoining saloon. Elizabeth, whose thoughts
were on what was passing between her favourite and the son of her
friend, sprang from her seat, behind the Emperor's chair. Charles
was at quadrille with Ripperda, the Princess de Waradin, and another
lady. Every body started from their respective positions: but no one,
except the young Arch-duchess, durst follow Her Majesty, as she had not
commanded the attendance of any.

The Emperor laid down his cards, and asked what had happened. Ripperda
was not aware that his son was engaged in it, and with perfect
indifference followed the example of the Sovereign, in rising from his
chair. But the Princess de Waradin, who had observed Louis having been
left with the favourite, rather sarcastically replied to the Emperor's
question.

"If Your Majesty will do the Marquis de Montemar the honour of
enquiring of him, he can give every information; as he has been _tete
a tete_ with Countess Altheim, in that room, for some time."

Ripperda knew the character of the favourite; and recollecting
his son's admiration of her; with an alarm he did not allow to be
visible, he requested the Emperor's commands, to assist the Empress's
interference in whatever accident might have happened.

"Certainly," replied he, "and let any body who may be of service, go
with you."

This license sent every-body into the room.

Elizabeth had found Louis, on one knee, by the side of the insensible
Otteline. He was pale, and speechless. And fearing that he might soon
be in the same state with her he ineffectually attempted to raise,
while the young Archduchess clung, weeping, to her lifeless friend,
the Empress turned round at the approaching steps; and the first that
was near her, being Sinzendorff, in a hurrying, but suppressed voice,
she said,--"Chancellor, take care of de Montemar, take him from these
people's eyes."

Almost without consciousness, Louis obeyed the impulse of Sinzendorff's
arm, and soon found himself withdrawn from the gaze of strangers.
The Chancellor had led him, without speaking, across a passage that
opened from the music-room, into the Imperial library. When he saw his
agitated companion throw himself into a seat, and cover his face with
his clasped hands, the worthy statesman laid his hand on his shoulder
while he broke silence.

"Marquis, will you tell me frankly? Do you love the Countess Altheim?"

The friendly tone in which this was asked, recalled Louis in some
measure to himself; and without altering his position, for he shrunk
from shewing the weakness that might be discovered in his countenance,
he answered. "I do love her, more than I could have thought it
possible, after a full conviction that she can no longer be conducive
to my happiness! Oh, my lord, you were present at the scene which
decided my fate. What she then avowed, convinced me that she and I must
never be united: I have just dared to tell her so.--But the situation
to which it reduced her, severs my soul from my body."

"Virtuous young man," cried Sinzendorff, "let it not sever your
principle from your soul! You are formed for better things than an
intriguing woman's slave. Hear what I am now going to say to you! But
as you are worthy the confidence I place in you; and as a breach of it
would ruin me with the Imperial family; you must not discover, even
to your father, that the facts I am going to state have been learnt
from me. When I have told them, examine into their truth, and act on
the result. Know then, that the woman, who causes you this emotion,
is unworthy of a single regret from a mind like yours. Could you be
satisfied with beauty alone, I acknowledge it is there in amplest
perfection; but she is without one feminine feeling, wholly abandoned
to ambition, and careless by what means she raises herself to the
point of her hopes. At the age of sixteen she married one of the
worst characters in the Imperial court, to be elevated to the rank of
nobility. When a widow, she attempted the affections of several noble
strangers, who, however, were too wary to be taken in her toils; but
at last she entangled the passions of my sister's son, Don Ferdinand
d'Osorio; and wrought him to the most extravagant excesses, while her
own selfish aim was only to perpetuate her rank. This, his father told
me; but he interfered, and the young man recovered his senses. Her
next trial was on yourself! And I solemnly assure you, that from the
first of your appearance in this palace, she knew that you were not
the Chevalier de Phaffenberg. And, though I doubt not, she prefers
your youth and graces, to the age and decrepitude of the dotard to
whom she first sold her duty as a wife; I know her well, and can aver,
that she has no value for the superiority of your mental qualities.
Do not mislead yourself, de Montemar, by investing her with your own
feelings. It is not the loss of yourself that caused the situation in
which you left her; but the loss of an illustrious husband:--the loss
of one, who would have re-introduced her to the circle which her pride
insulted, and the members of which, dread, while they despise her. My
dear Marquis, excepting the infatuated Empress, she has not one friend
in Vienna!"

"She warned me, that she had enemies," replied Louis, in an interrupted
voice, "but with me, her worst enemy is herself. Chancellor, I am
grateful for what you have said, and you shall find by my fidelity,
that I am so. But not even all these charges could have weighed against
the pleadings of my heart in her favour, had I not been present that
fatal evening in the _boudoir_."

"A man of your principles," replied Sinzendorf, "ought rather to regard
it as a providential evening!--If they be principles, you will abide
by them; and I shall see you free, honoured, and happy. If they be no
more than sentiment, (which is common with youth!) they will evaporate
in her first sighs, and I shall soon have to congratulate her as
Marchioness de Montemar. In that case, I will forget all that I have
said, since I cannot disbelieve it."

Louis felt the force, and the friendship, of this admonition.

"Your Excellency shall never have reason to forget the generous
interest you have taken in my happiness. And, in apology for this
emotion, you must accept the excuse of one, young as myself, (but, oh,
on how enviable an occasion!) _my body trembles at the purpose of my
soul_."

"Could I believe, that she did not love me, my task would have less of
torture!" This last thought, was in his mind, though he did not utter
it; and before the Chancellor could proceed with the commendation
this resolution merited, a page appeared at the door, to inform them
the Emperor had dismissed the company; and that the Duke de Ripperda
awaited the Marquis in the vestibule.




CHAP. XIV.


Not a word passed between Louis and his father, while they drove home.
Count de Patinos was in the carriage; and would have sat mute also, had
not the Duke, with his usual power over all tempers, brought the sullen
youth to converse freely on the entertainments of the evening.

As soon as they alighted, Ripperda desired his son to accompany him to
his cabinet. Louis was in such heavy internal distress, he hailed the
command as a summons to unburthen his unloaded bosom; and to receive
that advice, or rather support, in the fulfilment of his resolution, he
found he so woefully required. He followed his father with alacrity.
When the Duke had closed the door, and saw that his son had thrown
himself into a seat, he took a place near him.

"Now," said he, "the time is come, when you are to give the confidence
you promised me. I no longer consider myself the arbiter of your
conduct. That responsibility I leave to yourself. The extensive duties
of my own destiny are sufficient for me. I, therefore, shall advise,
but I command no more. You must rise or fall by your own resolves;
and, if I guess right, you stand now, on a point of no insignificant
decision. Tell me, what has passed between the Countess Altheim and
you, to give rise to the extraordinary scene of this evening; and to
sanction the request which the Empress made to me at parting, that I
would go to her to-morrow, _to decide on the fate of one, who was dear
to her, as her own life_!--Have you pledged yourself to the Countess?"

"I hope not," earnestly replied Louis. "I do not understand you!"
returned his father, "by what has just occurred, she has shewn to the
whole court, what she wishes people to suppose has passed between you;
and you must be aware that the favorite of Elizabeth is not to be
treated with idle gallantry. What grounds, then, have you to hope, that
you have not pledged yourself beyond recall? Or, did the warning voice
of the Sieur Ignatius come to late?"

"It came too late," replied Louis, "to save me from the intoxication of
her beauties; and no prudence on my part, could counteract the effects
of that luckless rencontre with the Electress of Bavaria. Yet, in the
wildest tumults of my heart, I still wrestled with myself; in the very
moment of my greatest weakness, I recollected the Sieur's admonition,
and, re-awakened to filial duty, checked the vow on my lips; and,
telling her I was not my own, I trust, I saved my honour." Ripperda
shook his head, "Louis, did I not warn you against the power of beauty?"

"You did!" vehemently replied he, "and, from this hour, I forswear it
for ever!"

Being ignorant of the real cause of this abjuration, it surprised
the Duke. He had supposed that Louis's disorder had arisen from a
consciousness of having transgressed the spirit, if not the letter, of
the Sieur's injunctions, and that Otteline's emotion was to be dated
from fear that his father would not sanction the romantic passion of
her lover. For many reasons, the Duke had no wish to sanction it; and
while he regretted that woman was fair, and youth susceptible, he was
pleased to hear the unexpected exclamation from his son. He did not
remark on it, but required a recital of particulars, word for word, of
all that had passed between him and the Countess, that he might be an
impartial judge of Louis's freedom, or his bonds.

He obeyed ingenuously, till he came to the parts where her conduct
might be translated into a direct wooing of himself. Ripperda saw him
hesitate, and the generous colour that mounted to his down-cast eyes.

"Proceed," said he, "I can divine what your honour, or your delicacy
inclines you to conceal. She played upon your open nature, to make
you believe she loved you so passionately, she could not await your
time of drawing the secret from her! I know the sex, Louis. For more
than thirty years, I have been an object of their various practices.
And, once for all, you may receive it as an unerring rule, that, when
a woman runs before a man in the profession of her love, her love
is nothing more than profession. Her views are something baser."
Ripperda pursued the subject; and Louis was, at last, brought to
acknowledge, that the Countess had given him reason to believe that she
loved him devotedly,--too devotedly; and then, without with-holding a
circumstance, he related the whole affair, from the commencement of
their acquaintance, till the moment when he wished to close it for
ever. But, he confessed that what had happened in the music-room, had
roused all within him to rebellion, though his judgement was as stern
as ever against the pleadings of his infatuated senses.

"Oh, Sir!" cried he, "I love, and I despise her. And yet, when I stood
over her insensible form, which had become so, from the wound I had
inflicted, I could not but ask myself,--Am I a god, that I should thus
ruthlessly condemn human error, and break the heart that loves me?"

The Duke was a long time silent, after his son had ceased speaking.
Then looking up, he abruptly said, "Louis de Montemar, you are the
first man of your sort, with whom I ever came in contact. I see of what
spirit you are; but it will not do in the station you fill, or in the
times in which we live. The world is always changing, and you must go
with it, or it will leave you. I ought not to have left you so long at
Lindisfarne!"

Louis turned his eye on his father.

"I do not blame your instructor for educating you like himself. But the
style is obsolete, Louis. Had you been intended for a desert island, it
might have been well; but a citizen of the world requires other maxims.
The fault is mine, that I did not bring you to me before. Now, you
come into society, like an unarmed man into the midst of his enemies;
and, instead of hastening to shelter, you expose yourself to their
weapons, by acts of impotent hostility. You must content yourself in
maintaining your own principles; to stretch another's virtue to your
standard, you will always find a vain work of supererogation. In all
that you have described, the Countess Altheim has only acted as any
ambitious woman would have done; and ambition is not less rooted in the
sex, than in ourselves. She must not, therefore, be contemned for that.
Neither do I object to her, on account of her obscure birth. The blood
of your family is too essentially illustrious, not to raise to its own
elevation, whatever we mingle with its stream. But I wish to strengthen
our hands in Spain, by a marriage between my heir and one of its native
daughters. Besides, the Countess Altheim is dangerous in herself. Her
haughty spirit would embroil you with this, and every court, to which
you might conduct her; and persons might be inclined to disrespect the
man who could suffer the weakness of passion to subject him to an union
so universally despised."

During this discourse, the confidential warning of the Chancellor
seemed to sound again in the ear of Louis. He recollected the hints
which Wharton had dropped on the same subject; and, with sickening
attention, listened to his father, who, in less reserved language,
related every leading event of the life of the beautiful favourite.
No word glanced at her honour, as a chaste woman; but, every sentence
completed the portrait of mean-spirited, insatiable ambition. Shocked
to the soul, by the description of Count Altheim, whose character was
of such grossness, that it seemed impossible for a virtuous woman to
consent to be his wife; Louis hastily exclaimed, as the Duke rose to
depart. "I will never see her more! I will never trust myself again,
with any of her betraying sex! Henceforth, my dearest father," cried
he, with a feverish smile, "I will have no mistress but glory! Why,
why, did I ever withdraw my eyes from her divine face?" "She always
suffers, when woman disputes her rights," returned the Duke.

Louis kissed his father's hand, and retired to his own apartments.
His spirit felt beaten and bruised. It cowered under a sense of
self-degradation; and throwing himself on his bed, he passed a night of
painful retrospection, on all that he had seen and heard of her, who
was so lately the object of his untameable wishes.

"Cold, calculating, and unprincipled!" cried he, "and to such a woman,
did I give the first flames of my heart! Did I light up the sacred
altar to a fiend, in the form of the Queen of Heaven!--Wretch that
I am, to have so debased what was most noble within me! To sigh for
a piece of painted clay; to adore--and, even now, to weep over a
creature, whose soul, if I could behold it divested of its beautiful
garments, would disgust me by its sordid, earthward visage!" The
morning found his agitated spirits subsided to a calm. The intemperance
of passion was extinguished in his breast, and as he relinquished the
desire of possessing her, who had now lost every grace in his eyes, he
strengthened in the hope, that the killing words he had last pronounced
to her, were final to her views on him.

Noon brought several animated visitors, to interrupt the studies
which were his usual morning occupation, and generally, unfailing
tranquillizers. These young Austrians came to invite him to share in
various sorts of diversions for the day and the evening; and an hour
passed gaily on, in the vivid conversations of versatile youth. A few
of the Spaniards made their entrance, and disappeared again. De Patinos
was not among them; he had reproached those who had shewn a wish to
cultivate the kindness of Louis, with a mean submission to the minion
of temporary fortune; they, therefore, merely made their bow, and
without joining in the discourse, soon took their leave.

Louis found an amusing diversity of character in the Austrian group.
Most of them held commissions in the Imperial service, and were full of
the campaign against Turkey, which the valour of Prince Eugene had just
brought to a close. Others, were merely jocund spirits, "hot with the
fires of youth, and high in blood." And a few, had a philosophic turn;
some in the strait, but most in the crooked path: and these latter,
were the least agreeable of the set; as they united an ostentatious
assumption of purity of intellect, with a systematic corruption of
morals. Louis soon comprehended them, and treated them with marked
avoidance. The military young men were decidedly his favourites, their
profession was that of his own secret preference, and their manners
were most congenial to his taste. There was a brave ardour in their
deportment, and a careless enunciation of their sentiments, which,
whether wrong or right, had no aim but the utterance of the moment;
and, commonly, could as easily be turned from the wrong to the right,
as from the right to wrong. The faction was in their blood, not in
their understanding; and when the one was cooled, the other might soon
be recalled to order.

While Louis was attending to Count Koninseg's account of the tremendous
battle of Belgrade, a messenger arrived from the Duke de Ripperda. He
brought a letter for the Marquis de Montemar. With a blanched cheek, he
broke the seal; but the contents were a reprieve. The Duke told him,
he had not yet seen the Empress. She was gone to the Baths at Baden,
with Maria Theresa, who had sustained a relapse; and Countess Altheim
was their companion. The Emperor, had retired with his Council, for
a few days to the Luxemburg, to avoid the persecution of the foreign
ministers; and thither, by his command, Ripperda had accompanied him.

Louis closed the letter with a renovated countenance. He was left to do
the honours of the Embassador's table, not only to its usual guests,
but to a party of noble Austrians, whom Ripperda had invited. The Duke
being absent, the Spaniards were haughty and reserved at dinner, as
they affected to be, when they encountered Louis apart; and, as soon as
the desert was placed, de Patinos, and another of the name of Orendayn,
rose from their seats; and, with cold bows to the young secretary of
legation and his guests, quitted the room, to join societies more
agreeable to their humour.

Till the opera hour, the time passed merrily with the Austrian
group; and forgetful of his bosom's care, by their animated host.
The ring-leader of the Spaniards' discontent being gone, in the
person of de Patinos, the rest of the young grandees fell in with
the cheerfulness of the company. Subjects of taste, war, and beauty,
ruled the glowing hours; but on the latter subject, Louis discoursed
uneasily, and he was glad to see Koninseg look at his watch, and point
to it as a signal for adjourning to the theatre.

"My aunt, will be impatient," cried he, "she is determined, that he who
danced with Amelia at her first ball, shall conduct her to her first
opera."

It was also the first opera to Louis. He had never seen any in England;
and until now, he had no opportunity of visiting that at Vienna. The
_Palais de Espagne_ soon poured forth its gay inmates; and Louis and
Count Koninseg turned towards the mansion of the Princess de Waradin.
It was lit up in the fullest splendor, although no other visitors were
expected but de Montemar, and her nephew. The artless Amelia smiled
and blushed, and smiled again, when her mother, putting her arm into
Koninseg's, requested Louis to take charge of her daughter. He politely
obeyed, and led her to the carriage, while she prattled all the way
with the volubility of a giddy child, delighted at being treated like a
woman.

The opera-house presented but a gloomy appearance, from the extreme
scarcity of light, till the curtain drew up, and discovered a brilliant
chandelier, which hung directly over the actors. The illumination
of the stage cast the audience into deeper obscurity; therefore, of
the company in the boxes Louis had very little cognizance, while the
dresses and decorations of the opera, and the exquisite singing, might
have filled him with admiration, had not the style of the music,
reminded him of the first time he had heard the like, when the fair
Italian sung in his uncle's castle. He recollected his consequent
feelings that night; and humiliated in the remembrance, compared those
hours of infatuation, with his admiration of Otteline, and exclaimed to
himself--"What a slave have I been, to my eye and ear! Music, I shall
never like again; and beauty I shall abhor!"

As there was little of the latter, excepting youth and a blooming
complexion, in the smiling Amelia, to warn him of his abjuration; her
incessant questions and remarks on what was going forward on the stage,
amused him; and his attention to what she said, gratified the views of
her mother.

Apostola Zero, the father of the regular Italian Opera, had been
invited to Vienna by the Emperor; and to reward his acquiescence,
Charles invested him with two dissimilar, but productive
employments--Imperial historiographer, and poet of the court opera.
The grateful Italian dedicated his comprehensive genius solely to his
munificent patron; and the present performance was the first night of
a new composition he had formed on the story of Proserpine. The last
act was a representation of the infernal kingdom; laying bare the
foundations of AEtna, and exhibiting all the terrors of the subterranean
world. The curtain had hardly dropped, which it did in some confusion,
when an extraordinary bustle was heard behind the scenes. Soon after,
the theatre filled with smoke, and cries of fire were distinctly heard
from behind. Persons from the boxes jumped on the stage, while the
curtain was rent down by those before and behind it; and the scene
of horror that was discovered to those, who were not so entirely
absorbed in their fears but they could look around them, is not to
be described. The fire was seen bursting in several directions; men
were mounted aloft on the burning rafters, breaking down with their
hatchets the combustible apparatus in the way. Water was dashing and
streaming everywhere. The terrible light which filled the stage, too
well pourtrayed the inside of a raging volcano; sheets of flame, like
forked tongues, threw themselves forward from a thousand gaping mouths,
licking the ceiling, and entering the boxes. Shrieks, and groans, and
dismal cries, mingled with the iron clang of hammers, the fall of
timber, and the rush of fire and of people, assailed the ear in one
horrid moment of time.

At the first alarm, the ladies in the box with Louis, had been hurried
out by him, and some other gentlemen who had joined them in the course
of the evening. The poor little Amelia, true to nature, no sooner
thought herself in danger, than breaking from the protecting arms of
Louis, (who had caught her in them to hurry her through the pressing
crowd), she threw herself upon the bosom of her mother, and fainted
away. The Princess had more fortitude; and, assisted by hey nephew,
bore out the insensible girl, while Louis and the other gentleman made
a passage for them to the great door.

In passing the entrance of an obscure gallery, that led to an upper
range of boxes, he distinguished, in the midst of the uproar, shrieks
of peculiar distress. It was the very cry of agony and despair. Looking
round for a moment, he saw that his present charges were well enough
protected, and that he might safely leave them, to see and to succour
this terrific appeal. But even in the instant he was turning to obey
the impulse, he heard a fearful crash behind him; and a rush of people
followed, who bore him and his party, like a flood, into the square
before the theatre. All, then, was secure with them. But for the poor
suppliant, whose cries had pierced his heart, she was either lost, or
abandoned to the flames! At least, he would attempt to hear if her
voice yet sounded. Struggling his way back through the last crowds
who were making their escape, some, who felt him push by them in so
destructive a direction, cried aloud,--"Whoever you seek must have
perished. The top of the stage has fallen in, and the theatre is full
of fire."

But Louis, still fancying he heard the voice, pressed more
determinately forward, and soon found himself surrounded by smoke
alone. No sounds were distinct, but the raging of the flames in the
interior of the building, which roared in their work of destruction,
like the temple of Eolus, with all its winds. The heat was so intense,
that perspiration burst from all his pores; and the air around him was
a burning vapour. He hesitated to advance; and while his lungs filled
to suffocation, and the black smoke gleamed with horrid light, he was
stepping back, when the shriek burst forth again. Louis flew to the
sound. He rushed up a few steps into a narrow passage, answering the
cries as he advanced, in a loud voice, promising help. At the extremity
of the passage, which was short, he was interrupted by a closed door,
on the other side of which was the terrified suppliant, shaking it
with frantic violence. "I cannot open it!" cried she, in answer to his
demand.

"Stand from it, then," said he.

He was obeyed; and dashing his foot against it, it flew from its
hinges, and a lady instantly precipitated herself into his arms.
Another started from her knees, and with a hardly articulate cry of
joy, threw herself towards him. Louis clasped his almost insensible
burthen firmly to his breast, and bade her trembling companion cling
closely to him, as they must move swiftly, to have any chance of
escape. He turned round, and the lady, winding her arm in his mantle,
flew by his side, till they plunged at once into the dreadful smoke,
now red with advancing flames. He dashed impetuously forward; and his
almost stifled companion, partaking the desperate exertion, in a moment
afterwards they found themselves, with the issuing volumes, on the
platform of the portico.

He ran forward into the middle of the square, with his motionless load.
Dangers of a different kind, now menaced them. The flying rafters from
the consuming building, the pressure of people, with the throng of
carriages, and every confusion attendant on so tremendous a scene. In
an agitated voice, his companion asked him, whether he had strength to
bear his insensible burthen to the opposite side of the quadrangle.
Louis replied in the affirmative. She told him to go strait onwards to
the convent of Saint Magdalen; and, as he obeyed, she clung closely to
his arm.

When they arrived at the back of the convent, she let go her hold, and
taking a key from her bosom, opened a little low door in the building,
and whispered Louis to enter. When he was in, she locked the door
again, and bid him follow her in silence. She walked hastily along a
narrow stone passage, faintly lit by a few glimmering lamps. Opening an
iron-grating at the end, she issued into a garden, which she as swiftly
crossed; Louis still following, while the lady he carried, appeared to
be reviving under the influence of the fresh air. A high dark structure
rose on the other side, the top of which was illumined by the reflected
flames, which now rose in spires from the burning theatre. In the side
of this building was an arched door, surmounted by a cross. The lady
opened it, and Louis followed her into a little chapel; thence, through
several winding passages; till they brought him to a superb room, where
he laid his charge, now warm with returning animation, on a sofa.

His fair guide instantly applied essences to the recovering senses of
the lady, and in a few minutes she opened her eyes. He could only see
this happy change, by the gleam which fell on them, as the lids slowly
raised; for the apartment was immense, and only one wax-light stood
on a distant table. A moment after, she spoke in a low, inarticulate
voice; and looking round on the chamber, and then on Louis, who stood
by her, she caught the hand of her anxious companion, and exclaimed
with a cry of joy, "We are saved!--and, by whom!"

Her head dropped on the arm she had seized, and tears followed this
burst of feeling. Her friend bent only her head, and whispered
something in her ear, which Louis could not hear. The agitated lady
replied, "No, no;" then raising herself from her weeping position, and
sitting up on the couch, she said to Louis,--"I have no words in which
to thank my preserver, and, I will not seek any to deceive him. Even
by this light, I can see that I owe my life to the intrepid humanity of
the Marquis de Montemar."

The other lady obeyed the motion of her friend's hand, and set the
solitary candle on a stand near them. In the full light, Louis
recognized the face of the Electress of Bavaria, in the person he had
carried from the flames. He had no thought in the recognition, but
satisfaction at having rescued female helplessness from so direful a
death; and his reply was in unison with his feelings. It was not the
Princess he saw before him, nor the enemy of himself and his father;
but a woman, agitated from past terror, and grateful to him for having
averted its horrid consummation.

She explained the dreadful state of despair, in which he had found
her. For, hastening with her only attendant, Madame de Altenstein,
through the box to the inner passage door, while attempting to open
it, in the confusion of alarm she turned the key wrong, and having
strained the lock by the violence of her first application, no effort
could move it. She had then no resource, but cries for help, but
they passed unnoticed. And when the terrible crash, at the outcry of
the fallen roof, assailed her ear, in aimless phrenzy she would have
rushed back into the box, and leaped over into the flames, had not her
friend prevented her, by clinging to her knees. Again she flew to the
door;--again she rent the air with her unavailing shrieks,--"till you
came," continued she, "like a good angel, to my rescue!"

How different did the Electress appear now in the eyes of Louis, from
what she had seemed in the two former times of his seeing her. In
the boudoir of Countess Altheim, she looked, and expressed herself,
with the proud acknowledgement of a superior, to the vassals who had
done her service. At the fete in _la Favorita_, she gazed around in
haughty carelessness, and remarked with contemptuous sarcasm, on every
object. But now, she leaned on the sofa, conversing with him, with the
frankness of one who felt that danger and obligation had rendered them
equal; and her fine black eyes, large and luminous, as those of the
wild gazel, shone on him with eloquent gratitude. In all she said, the
force of her character appeared, in the strength of her understanding,
and the energy of her feelings.

She explained the nature of the whisper which her confidential
attendant had made in her ear, while she lay on her arm. It told her
the Marquis de Montemar was her preserver; and it asked permission to
dismiss him without farther discovery, "But," continued the Electress,
"would I not trust with my fortune, he who has preserved my life?"

She then said, that should it be known to her enemies, that she had
been at the Opera, they would blazon it abroad, as a decisive blow to
her hold on the affections of the people. The year of mourning for her
husband, was not yet expired; and should it be reported that she had
been at any public place, before that stated period, the superstitious
populace of Vienna, regarding it as a sacrilegious irreverence to
the memory of the dead; would consider her, who had committed the
act, as deserving excommunication from the Church,--repudiation from
the Imperial family; and a declaration from the Empire, that she had
forfeited all claims to her birthright.

"It is mere prejudice, that is against me;" said she, "but a prejudice,
having nothing to do with reason, is inaccessible to argument; hence, I
can only avoid its sentence by concealment."

In excuse for the rashness of having incurred so great a risk, for
so trifling a gratification, she pleaded her attachment to music,
the innocence of the amusement, and the frequency with which she had
enjoyed its stolen pleasures without discovery. By the indulgence of
the abbess of Saint Magdalen, who was the aunt of Madame de Altenstein,
she passed through the convent garden, which joined the Bavarian
palace; and thence, gliding along by remote passages in the sacred
dwelling, always reached the Opera-house in security. No other person
than Madame de Altenstein was ever her companion; and therefore, when
danger came, as no one knew she was there, she had none to watch her
safety, or to seek her preservation.

Louis listened to her animated discourse with admiration; but at times,
saw a _fierte_ in her manner, that recalled to his recollection her who
had sanctioned the several attempts on his father's life and his own.

She rose from the sofa, with a countenance full of noble sensibility;
"come with me," said she, "and I will shew you the heir of my
gratitude."

He obeyed the motion of her hand, as she passed before him with a light
step into an adjoining room. It was a bed-chamber, and in the bed lay a
boy in profound sleep. She approached him, and drew Louis to her side.
She turned her eyes, brimming in radiant tears, from the child, to her
preserver; and putting the hand of the little sleeper, into that of
Louis, she gently pressed them together.

"This is my son," said she, in a suppressed voice, "and thus I commit
him to the honour of a generous enemy."

Louis bent his lip to the cherubic hand that lay in his; and without a
word, glided back with the Electress into the apartment they had left.

She then told him, that as the fortunes of herself and her son,
depended on maintaining the affections of the major part of the
citizens of Vienna; her fate was now in the power of his lips. In
such a crisis, what was she to expect from his honour to her, or his
devotedness to the Empress?

"My silence, on what has passed," replied Louis.

"Then I am your friend for ever!" cried the Electress, her eyes
flashing a triumphant fire, and her lips parting with the smile of
conscious power; "you, and you alone, shall share my confidence, with a
man worthy to have been the adviser of Augustus. Come to me to-morrow
night at this hour, and I will bind you, heart to heart, with the glory
of manhood, undaunted Wharton!"

Louis started back.--She laid her hand on his arm.

"I know your bonds to the Empress, my ambitious, and unjust rival! Your
father's views, and her glozing tongue, have fastened you there, beyond
recall. It is not, then, your services as a partizan that I invoke;
but to give your society to my private circle. You are my preserver!
I repay you with my friendship; and that sentiment alone, I require in
return."

She now held his hand. He felt there was no deception in this demand;
no covert device; and the noble frankness of the speaker, so reminded
him of the beloved friend whose heart she had offered him, that with
irrepressible emotion he sunk upon his knee, and clasping the gracious
hand he held, earnestly yet respectfully between his, he replied.

"My veneration, illustrious Princess, must ever be yours. But I am
born to withstand my heart!--and while, in reverence to you, I keep an
eternal silence on what has happened; in fidelity to myself, I must
never venture again into this gracious presence!"

The Electress was not aware that the agitation which rendered his voice
and his looks so touching, as he remained at her feet, was excited
by tender remembrances of the friend he again abjured, in rejecting
her society. She was pleased with what she regarded as proofs of
sensibility to herself and her cause; and urged him, that if he feared
to make his visits openly, they might be paid in secret. With brevity,
and ingenuous freedom, he showed how impossible it was for the son of
Ripperda, in his present notorious situation, (as the great promoter of
all that concerned the pragmatic sanction;) to visit the adversary of
such a decree, either openly or in secret. If openly, he must assign
a reason for such apparent contradiction in conduct; and the only
adequate reason, could not be given without injury to the Electress.
Secret visits could not be made without a chance of detection; and that
incurred, the ruin of his own honour must be the consequence.

"I see the cogency of your arguments," returned she, "but I grieve to
allow them unanswerable. Fortune may yet favour us. You have twice
assisted me in distress. If it happens a third time," added she,
smiling impressively, "take care of your destiny!--At present I grant
your release.--Silence must be our mutual bond, till we can meet in
open day!"

"Silence, inviolable silence!" returned Louis, as he put her hand to
his lips, and rose to withdraw.

"Altenstein," cried she, "give me that casket."

The lady obeyed; and the Electress, pressing a spring, opened it. She
took out a small miniature of herself, set in plain gold.

"I intended this for the bosom of my best counsellor;" said she, "but
he will not object the transfer to him who has preserved my life. Take
it de Montemar. It will not, by word or action, betray your esteem for
Maria of Bavaria."

"I need not the picture, since the image is stamped on my heart!" said
Louis, pressing it to his breast, and then laying it back into the open
casket; "I must not be the possessor of so dangerous a treasure."

A vivid colour kindled on the cheek of the Electress; and with a little
elevation of her head, she closed the lid of the box upon the portrait,
and said, "For a brave man, Marquis, you are a very coward!--But it
shall be as you say.--Farewell, till more propitious hours."

Louis bowed.

"Altenstein," continued she, "shall conduct you out by a private door;
and then----Farewell!"

She stretched her hand to him. He again put it to his lips; and as she
instantly withdrew, he mechanically obeyed the summons of Madame, to
follow her.

As the faithful _Lady of the Key_, (who certainly did not appear to
have her name for nothing,) dismissed Louis from a little obscure
door, into a back street, he observed three men approaching; at sight
of him, they evidently drew back into the shadow; and as he passed
them, the gleam of the lamps attached to this part of the Bavarian
residence, fell on his face. Of this he was unconscious, and thinking
no more of the eves-droppers, (on whom his absorbed attention had not
cast a second look,) he walked swiftly along.

The observers were no other than Duke Wharton, and the two Spaniards,
de Patinos and Orendayn. As soon as he had passed, de Patinos
exclaimed; "surely, that is de Montemar!"

"And from the Bavarian palace by stealth!" remarked Orendayn, "what can
it mean?"

Wharton was not less surprised than his companions, at a rencontre
with Louis at so incredible a place; and the more so, to see him issue
from a portal, which, to this instant, was sacred to his own regress
at hours of untimely counsel. But surprise did not appear in him, by
look, start, or exclamation.

"No;" replied he, with perfect indifference, "it is one Phaffenberg,
who, I believe, has been thought like the Spanish secretary."

"By heaven," said the Count, "I never was so deceived in my life! The
air of his figure, and the turn of his profile, I could have sworn to;
but I now recollect, de Montemar went out a gay coxcomb, in embroidery
and plumage, and this person is rather in dingy apparel."

"A poor scrivener!" replied Wharton, "so I know not how he could be
otherwise."

With this observation they proceeded down the street, towards the
consuming theatre. De Patinos believed he had been mistaken, and
dismissed the subject of the hated de Montemar. But Orendayn, not
less vindictive than his countryman, was more crafty; and suspecting
the manner of Wharton, (his eyesight not being sufficiently clear
to give him conviction,) walked on in silence, ruminating on future
observation. For the Duke himself, though he discoursed on a thousand
subjects, he thought of none but Louis, till he could hear his
appearance at that door accounted for by the Electress herself.



                       END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.



     Printed by A. Strahan,
  New-Street-Square, London.


  Transcriber's Notes

  page   65  added period to (letter addressed to, The Chevalier de
     Phaffenberg.)
  page   94  seperate changed to separate (but in separate cells)
  page 163  glimpes changed to glimpse (and the glimpse of the moon)
  page 189  extra quote mark removed (to noble sacrifice! But,)
  page 230  Impereal changed to Imperial (to the Imperial _boudoir_;)
  page 231  Issabella changed to Isabella  (had rendered Isabella)
  page 253  Added missing " before stratagems
  page 270  devested changed to divested  (she proved herself divested
     of any)
  page 280  bossom changed to bosom  (cherished in his bosom for his
    father)
  page 283  arroused changed to aroused  (Louis aroused)
  page 308  m changed to my  (honours of my race)
  page 319  removed duplicate "as" from (gorgeous as were these
    ornaments)
  page 376  vissage changed to visage  (earthward visage!)

  List of Archaic and Variable Spelling (not an exhaustive list)

   achievement is spelled atchievement
   portray is spelled pourtray
   gulf is spelled gulph
   eavesdroppers is spelled eves-droppers
   harassed is spelled harrassed
   ante-room is spelled anti-room
   fabric is spelled fabrick
   group is spelled groupe or group
   burden is burthen
   negotiator/negotiation are negociator/negociation
   frenzy is spelled phrenzy





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pastor's Fire-side Vol. 2 (of 4), by
Jane Porter

*** 