Henry of England led the Polonaise with Louise of Savoy; Margaret of Austria would not join in it: waltzing quickly followed. The Emperor seldom left the side of the Queen of Navarre, and often conversed with her Majesty’s poet. The Prince of Asturias hovered for a moment round his father’s daughter, as if he were summoning resolution to ask her to waltz. Once, indeed, he opened his mouth; could it have been to speak? But the young Margaret gave no encouragement to this unusual exertion; and Philip of Asturias, looking, if possible, more sad and sombre than before, skulked away. The Crown Prince left the gardens, and now a smile lit up every face, except that of the young Baroness. The gracious Grand Duke, unwilling to see a gloomy countenance anywhere to-night, turned to Vivian, who was speaking to Madame Carolina, and said, “Gentle poet, would that thou hadst some chanson or courtly compliment to chase the cloud which hovers on the brow of our much-loved daughter of Austria! Your popularity, sir,” continued the Grand Duke, dropping his mock heroic vein and speaking in a much lower tone, “your popularity, sir, among the ladies of the Court, cannot be increased by any panegyric of mine; nor am I insensible, believe me, to the assiduity and skill with which you have complied with my wishes in making our Court agreeable to the relative of a man to whom we owe so much as Mr. Beckendorff. I am informed, Mr. Grey,” continued his Royal Highness, “that you have no intention of very speedily returning to your country; I wish that I could count you among my peculiar attendants. If you have an objection to live in the palace without performing your quota of duty to the State, we shall have no difficulty in finding you an office, and clothing you in our official costume. Think of this!” So saying, with a gracious smile, his Royal Highness, leading Madame Carolina, commenced a walk round the gardens.
The young Baroness did not follow them. Solyman the Magnificent, and Bayard the irreproachable, and Barbarossa the pirate, and Bourbon the rebel, immediately surrounded her. Few persons were higher ton than the Turkish Emperor and his Admiral; few persons talked more agreeable nonsense than the Knight sans peur et sans reproche; no person was more important than the warlike Constable; but their attention, their amusement, and their homage were to-night thrown away on the object of their observance. The Baroness listened to them without interest, and answered them with brevity. She did not even condescend, as she had done before, to enter into a war of words, to mortify their vanity or exercise their wit. She treated them neither with contempt nor courtesy. If no smile welcomed their remarks, at least her silence was not scornful, and the most shallow-headed prater that fluttered around her felt that he was received with dignity and not with disdain. Awed by her conduct, not one of them dared to be flippant, and every one of them soon became dull. The ornaments of the Court of Reisenburg, the arbiters of ton and the lords of taste, stared with astonishment at each other when they found, to their mutual surprise, that at one moment, in such a select party, universal silence pervaded. In this state of affairs, every one felt that his dignity required his speedy disappearance from the lady’s presence. The Orientals, taking advantage of Bourbon’s returning once more to the charge with an often unanswered remark, coolly walked away: the Chevalier made an adroit and honourable retreat by joining a passing party; and the Constable was the only one who, being left in solitude and silence, was finally obliged to make a formal bow and retire discomforted from the side of the only woman with whom he had ever condescended to fall in love. Leaning against the trunk of a tree at some little distance, Vivian Grey watched the formation and dissolution of the young Baroness’ levée with lively interest. His eyes met the lady’s as she raised them from the ground on von Sohnspeer quitting her. She immediately beckoned to Vivian, but without her usual smile. He was directly at her side, but she did not speak. At last he said, “This is a most brilliant scene!”
“You think so, do you?” answered the lady, in a tone and manner which almost made Vivian believe, for a moment, that his friend Mr. Beckendorff was at his side.
“Decidedly his daughter!” thought he.
“You are not gay to-night?” said Vivian.
“Why should I be?” said the lady, in a manner which would have made Vivian imagine that his presence was as disagreeable to her as that of Count von Sohnspeer, had not the lady herself invited his company.
“I suppose the scene is very brilliant,” continued the Baroness, after a few moments’ silence. “At least all here seem to think so, except two persons.”
“And who are they?” asked Vivian.
“Myself and—the Crown Prince. I am almost sorry that I did not dance with him. There seems a wonderful similarity in our dispositions.”
“You are pleased to be severe to-night.”
“And who shall complain when the first person that I satirize is myself?”
“It is most considerate in you,” said Vivian, “to undertake such an office; for it is one which you yourself are alone capable of fulfilling. The only person that can ever satirize your Excellency is yourself; and I think even then that, in spite of your candour, your self-examination must please us with a self-panegyric.”
“Nay, a truce to compliments: at least let me hear better things from you. I cannot any longer endure the glare of these lamps and dresses! your arm! Let us walk for a few minutes in the more retired and cooler parts of the gardens.”
The Baroness and Vivian left the amphitheatre by a different path to that by which the Grand Duke and Madame Carolina had quitted it. They found the walks quite solitary; for the royal party, which was small, contained the only persons who had yet left the stage.
Vivian and his companions strolled about for some time, conversing on subjects of casual interest. The Baroness, though no longer absent, either in her manner or her conversation, seemed depressed; and Vivian, while he flattered himself that he was more entertaining than usual, felt, to his mortification, that the lady was not entertained.
“I am afraid you find it dull here,” said he; “shall we return?”
“Oh, no; do not let us return! We have so short a time to be together that we must not allow even one hour to be dull.”
As Vivian was about to reply, he heard the joyous voice of young Maximilian; it sounded very near. The royal party was approaching. The Baronet expressed her earnest desire to avoid it; and as to advance or to retreat, in these labyrinthine walks, was almost equally hazardous, they retired into one of those green recesses which we have before mentioned; indeed it was the very evergreen grove in the centre of which the Nymph of the Fountain watched for her loved Carian youth. A shower of moonlight fell on the marble statue, and showed the Nymph in an attitude of consummate skill: her modesty struggling with her desire, and herself crouching in her hitherto pure waters, while her anxious ear listens for the bounding step of the regardless huntsman.
“The air is cooler here,” said the Baroness, “or the sound of the falling water is peculiarly refreshing to my senses. They have passed. I rejoice that we did not return; I do not think that I could have remained among those lamps another moment. How singular, actually to view with aversion a scene which appears to enchant all!”
“A scene which I should have thought would have been particularly charming to you,” said Vivian; “you are dispirited tonight!”
“Am I?” said the Baroness. “I ought not to be; not to be more dispirited than I ever am. To-night I expected pleasure; nothing has happened which I did not expect, and everything which I did. And yet I am sad! Do you think that happiness can ever be sad? I think it must be so. But whether I am sorrowful or happy I can hardly tell; for it is only within these few days that I have known either grief or joy.”
“It must be counted an eventful period in your existence which reckons in its brief hours a first acquaintance with such passions!” said Vivian, with a searching eye and an inquiring voice.
“Yes; an eventful period, certainly an eventful period,” answered the Baroness, with a thoughtful air and in measured words.
“I cannot bear to see a cloud upon that brow!” said Vivian. “Have you forgotten how much was to be done to-night? How eagerly you looked forward to its arrival? How bitterly we were to regret the termination of the mimic empire?”
“I have forgotten nothing; would that I had! I will not look grave. I will be gay; and yet, when I remember how soon other mockery besides this splendid pageant must be terminated, why should I look gay? Why may I not weep?”
“Nay, if we are to moralise on worldly felicity, I fear that instead of inspiriting you, which is my wish, I shall prove but a too congenial companion. But such a theme is not for you.”
“And why should it be for one who, though he lecture me with such gravity and gracefulness, can scarcely be entitled to play the part of Mentor by the weight of years?” said the Baroness, with a smile: “for one who, I trust, who I should think, as little deserved, and was as little inured to, sorrow as myself!”
“To find that you have cause to grieve,” said Vivian, “and to learn from you, at the same time, your opinion of my own lot, prove what I have too often had the sad opportunity of observing, that the face of man is scarcely more genuine and less deceitful than these masquerade dresses which we now wear.”
“But you are not unhappy?” asked the Baroness with a quick voice.
“Not now,” said Vivian.
His companion seated herself on the marble balustrade which surrounded the fountain: she did not immediately speak again, and Vivian was silent, for he was watching her motionless countenance as her large brilliant eyes gazed with earnestness on the falling water sparkling in the moonlight. Surely it was not the mysterious portrait at Beckendorff’s that he beheld!
She turned. She exclaimed in an agitated voice, “O friend! too lately found, why have we met to part?”
“To part, dearest!” said he, in a low and rapid voice, and he gently took her hand; “to part! and why should we part? why—”
“Ask not; your question is agony!” She tried to withdraw her hand, he pressed it with renewed energy, it remained in his, she turned away her head, and both were silent.
“O! lady,” said Vivian, as he knelt at her side, “why are we not happy?”
His arm is round her waist, gently he bends his head, their speaking eyes meet, and their trembling lips cling into a kiss!
A seal of love and purity and faith I and the chaste moon need not have blushed as she lit up the countenances of the lovers.
“O! lady, why are we not happy?”
“We are, we are: is not this happiness, is not this joy, is not this bliss? Bliss,” she continued, in a low broken voice, “to which I have no right, no title. Oh! quit, quit my hand! Happiness is not for me!” She extricated herself from his arm, and sprang upon her feet. Alarm, rather than affection, was visible on her agitated features. It seemed to cost her a great effort to collect her scattered senses; the effort was made with pain, but with success.
“Forgive me,” she said, in a hurried and indistinct tone; “forgive me! I would speak, but cannot, not now at least; we have been long away, too long; our absence will be remarked to-night; to-night we must give up to the gratification of others, but I will speak. For yours, for my own sake, let us, let us go. You know that we are to be very gay to-night, and gay we will be. Who shall prevent us? At least the present hour is our own; and when the future ones must be so sad, why, why, trifle with this?”
The reader is not to suppose that Vivian Grey thought of the young Baroness merely in the rapid scenes which we have sketched. There were few moments in the day in which her image did not occupy his thoughts, and which, indeed, he did not spend in her presence. From the first her character had interested him. His accidental but extraordinary acquaintance with Beckendorff made him view any individual connected with that singular man with a far more curious feeling than could influence the young nobles of the Court, who were ignorant of the Minister’s personal character. There was an evident mystery about the character and situation of the Baroness, which well accorded with the eccentric and romantic career of the Prime Minister of Reisenburg. Of the precise nature of her connection with Beckendorff Vivian was wholly ignorant. The world spoke of her as his daughter, and the affirmation of Madame Carolina confirmed the world’s report. Her name was still unknown to him; and although during the few moments that they had enjoyed an opportunity of conversing together alone, Vivian had made every exertion of which good breeding, impelled by curiosity, is capable, and had devised many little artifices with which a schooled address is well acquainted to obtain it, his exertions had hitherto been unsuccessful. If there was a mystery, the young lady was competent to preserve it; and with all her naïveté, her interesting ignorance of the world, and her evidently uncontrollable spirit, no hasty word ever fell from her cautious lips which threw any light on the objects of his inquiry. Though impetuous, she was never indiscreet, and often displayed a caution which was little in accordance with her youth and temper. The last night had witnessed the only moment in which her passions seemed for a time to have struggled with, and to have overcome, her judgment; but it was only for a moment. That display of overpowering feeling had cost Vivian a sleepless night; and he is at this instant pacing up and down the chamber of his hotel, thinking of that which he had imagined could exercise his thoughts no more.
She was beautiful; she loved him; she was unhappy! To be loved by any woman is flattering to the feelings of every man, no matter how deeply he may have quaffed the bitter goblet of worldly knowledge. The praise of a fool is incense to the wisest of us; and though we believe ourselves broken-hearted, it still delights us to find that we are loved. The memory of Violet Fane was still as fresh, as sweet, to the mind of Vivian Grey as when he pressed her blushing cheek for the first and only time. To love again, really to love as he had done, he once thought was impossible; he thought so still. The character of the Baroness had interested him from the first. Her ignorance of mankind, and her perfect acquaintance with the polished forms of society; her extreme beauty, her mysterious rank, her proud spirit and impetuous feelings; her occasional pensiveness, her extreme waywardness, had astonished, perplexed, and enchanted him. But he had never felt in love. It never for a moment had entered into his mind that his lonely bosom could again be a fit resting-place for one so lovely and so young. Scared at the misery which had always followed in his track, he would have shuddered ere he again asked a human being to share his sad and blighted fortunes. The partiality of the Baroness for his society, without flattering his vanity, or giving rise to thoughts more serious than how he could most completely enchant for her the passing hour, had certainly made the time passed in her presence the least gloomy which he had lately experienced. At the same moment that he left the saloon of the palace he had supposed that his image quitted her remembrance; and if she had again welcomed him with cheerfulness and cordiality, he had felt that his reception was owing to not being, perhaps, quite as frivolous as the Count of Eberstein, and rather more amusing than the Baron of Gernsbach.
It was therefore with the greatest astonishment that, last night, he had found that he was loved, loved, too, by this beautiful and haughty girl, who had treated the advances of the most distinguished nobles with ill-concealed scorn, and who had so presumed upon her dubious relationship to the bourgeois Minister that nothing but her own surpassing loveliness and her parent’s all-engrossing influence could have excused or authorised her conduct.
Vivian had yielded to the magic of the moment, and had returned the feelings apparently no sooner expressed than withdrawn. Had he left the gardens of the palace the Baroness’s plighted lover he might perhaps have deplored his rash engagement, and the sacred image of his first and hallowed love might have risen up in judgment against his violated affection; but how had he and the interesting stranger parted? He was rejected, even while his affection was returned; and while her flattering voice told him that he alone could make her happy, she had mournfully declared that happiness could not be hers. How was this? Could she be another’s? Her agitation at the Opera, often the object of his thought, quickly occurred to him! It must be so. Ah! another’s! and who this rival? this proud possessor of a heart which could not beat for him? Madame Carolina’s declaration that the Baroness must be married off was at this moment remembered: her marked observation, that von Sohnspeer was no son of Beckendorff’s, not forgotten. The Field Marshal, too, was the valued friend of the Minister; and it did not fail to occur to Vivian that it was not von Sohnspeer’s fault that his attendance on the Baroness was not as constant as his own. Indeed, the unusual gallantry of the Commander-in-Chief had been the subject of many a joke among the young lords of the Court, and the reception of his addresses by their unmerciful object not unobserved or unspared. But as for poor von Sohnspeer, what could be expected, as Emilius von Aslingen observed, “from a man whose softest compliment was as long, loud, and obscure as a birthday salute!”
No sooner was the affair clear to Vivian, no sooner was he convinced that a powerful obstacle existed to the love or union of himself and the Baroness, than he began to ask what right the interests of third persons had to interfere between the mutual affection of any individuals. He thought of her in the moonlight garden, struggling with her pure and natural passion. He thought of her exceeding beauty, her exceeding love. He beheld this rare and lovely creature in the embrace of von Sohnspeer. He turned from the picture in disgust and indignation. She was his. Nature had decreed it. She should be the bride of no other man. Sooner than yield her up he would beard Beckendorff himself in his own retreat, and run every hazard and meet every danger which the ardent imagination of a lover could conceive. Was he madly to reject the happiness which Providence, or Destiny, or Chance had at length offered him? If the romance of boyhood could never be realised, at least with this engaging being for his companion, he might pass through his remaining years in calmness and in peace. His trials were perhaps over. Alas! this is the last delusion of unhappy men!
Vivian called at the Palace, but the fatigues of the preceding night prevented either of the ladies from being visible. In the evening he joined a small and select circle. The party, indeed, only consisted of the Grand Duke, Madame, their visitors, and the usual attendants, himself, and von Sohnspeer. The quiet of the little circle did not more strikingly contrast with the noise, and glare, and splendour of the last night than did Vivian’s subdued reception by the Baroness with her agitated demeanour in the garden. She was cordial, but calm. He found it quite impossible to gain even one moment’s private conversation with her. Madame Carolina monopolised his attention, as much to favour the views of the Field Marshal as to discuss the comparative merits of Pope as a moralist and a poet; and Vivian had the mortification of observing his odious rival, whom he now thoroughly detested, discharge without ceasing his royal salutes in the impatient ear of Beckendorff’s lovely daughter.
Towards the conclusion of the evening a chamberlain entered the room and whispered his mission to the Baroness. She immediately rose and quitted the apartment. As the party was breaking up she again entered. Her countenance was agitated. Madame Carolina was in the art of being overwhelmed with the compliments of the Grand Marshal, and Vivian seized the opportunity of reaching the Baroness. After a few hurried sentences she dropped her glove. Vivian gave it her. So many persons were round them that it was impossible to converse except on the most common topics. The glove was again dropped.
“I see,” said the Baroness, with a meaning look, “that you are but a recreant knight, or else you would not part with a lady’s glove so easily.”
Vivian gave a rapid glance round the room. No one was observing him, and the glove was immediately concealed. He hurried home, rushed up the staircase of the hotel, ordered lights, locked the door, and with a sensation of indescribable anxiety tore the precious glove from his bosom, seized, opened, and read the enclosed and following note. It was written in pencil, in a hurried hand, and some of the words were repeated:—
“I leave the Court to-night. He is here himself. No art can postpone my departure. Much, much, I wish to see you; to say, to say, to you. He is to have an interview with the Grand Duke to-morrow morning. Dare you come to his place in his absence? You know the private road. He goes by the high road, and calls in his way on a Forest Councillor: it is the white house by the barrier; you know it! Watch him to-morrow morning; about nine or ten I should think; here, here; and then for heaven’s sake let me see you. Dare everything! Fail not! Mind, by the private road: beware the other! You know the ground. God bless you:
“SYBILLA”
Vivian read the note over a thousand times. He could not retire to rest. He called Essper George, and gave him all necessary directions for the morning. About three o’clock Vivian lay down on a sofa, and slept for a few hours. He started often in his short and feverish slumber. His dreams were unceasing and inexplicable. At first von Sohnspeer was their natural hero; but soon the scene shifted. Vivian was at Ems, walking under the well-remembered lime-trees, and with the Baroness. Suddenly, although it was mid-day, the Sun became large, blood-red, and fell out of the heavens; his companion screamed, a man rushed forward with a drawn sword. It was the idiot Crown Prince of Reisenburg. Vivian tried to oppose him, but without success. The infuriated ruffian sheathed his weapon in the heart of the Baroness. Vivian shrieked, and fell upon her body, and, to his horror, found himself embracing the cold corpse of Violet Fane!
Vivian and Essper mounted their horses about seven o’clock. At eight they had reached a small inn near the Forest Councillor’s house, where Vivian was to remain until Essper had watched the entrance of the Minister. It was a few minutes past nine when Essper returned with the joyful intelligence that Owlface and his master had been seen to enter the Courtyard. Vivian immediately mounted Max, and telling Essper to keep a sharp watch, he set spurs to his horse.
“Now, Max, my good steed, each minute is golden; serve thy master well!” He patted the horse’s neck, the animal’s erected ears proved how well it understood its master’s wishes; and taking advantage of the loose bridle, which was confidently allowed it, the horse sprang rather than galloped to the Minister’s residence. Nearly an hour, however, was lost in gaining the private road, for Vivian, after the caution in the Baroness’s letter, did not dare the high road.
He is galloping up the winding rural lane, where he met Beckendorff on the second morning of his visit. He has reached the little gate, and following the example of the Grand Duke, ties Max at the entrance. He dashes over the meadows; not following the path, but crossing straight through the long dewy grass, he leaps over the light iron railing; he is rushing up the walk; he takes a rapid glance, in passing, at the little summer-house; the blue passion-flower is still blooming, the house is in sight; a white handkerchief is waving from the drawing-room window! He sees it; fresh wings are added to its course; he dashes through a bed of flowers, frightens the white peacock, darts through the library window, and is in the drawing room.
The Baroness was there: pale and agitated she stood beneath the mysterious picture, with one arm leaning on the old carved mantelpiece. Overcome by her emotions, she did not move forward to meet him as he entered; but Vivian observed neither her constraint nor her agitation.
“Sybilla! dearest Sybilla! say you are mine!”
He seized her hand. She struggled not to disengage herself; her head sank upon her arm, which rested upon his shoulder. Overpowered, she sobbed convulsively. He endeavoured to calm her, but her agitation increased; and minutes elapsed ere she seemed to be even sensible of his presence. At length she became more calm, and apparently making a struggle to compose herself, she raised her head and said, “This is very weak—let us walk for a moment about the room!”
At this moment Vivian was seized by the throat with a strong grasp. He turned round; it was Mr. Beckendorff, with a face deadly white, his full eyes darting from their sockets like a hungry snake’s, and the famous Italian dagger in his right hand.
“Villain!” said he, in the low voice of fatal passion; “Villain, is this your Destiny?”
Vivian’s first thoughts were for the Baroness; and turning his head from Beckendorff, he looked with the eye of anxious love to his companion. But, instead of fainting, instead of being overwhelmed by this terrible interruption, she seemed, on the contrary, to have suddenly regained her natural spirit and self-possession. The blood had returned to her hitherto pale cheek, and the fire to an eye before dull with weeping. She extricated herself immediately from Vivian’s encircling arm, and by so doing enabled him to have struggled, had it been necessary, more equally with the powerful grasp of his assailant.
“Stand off, sir!” said the Baroness, with an air of inexpressible dignity, and a voice which even at this crisis seemed to anticipate that it would be obeyed. “Stand off, sir! stand off, I command you!”
Beckendorff for one moment was motionless: he then gave her a look of piercing earnestness, threw Vivian, rather than released him, from his hold, and flung the dagger with a bitter smile, into the corner of the room. “Well, madam!” said he, in a choking voice, “you are obeyed!”
“Mr. Grey,” continued the Baroness, “I regret that this outrage should have been experienced by you because you have dared to serve me. My presence should have preserved you from this contumely; but what are we to expect from those who pride themselves upon being the sons of slaves! You shall hear further from me.” So saying, the lady, bowing to Vivian, and sweeping by the Minister with a glance of indescribable disdain, quitted the apartment. As she was on the point of leaving the room, Vivian was standing against the wall, with a pale face and folded arms; Beckendorff, with his back to the window, his eyes fixed on the ground; and Vivian, to his astonishment, perceived, what escaped the Minister’s notice, that while the lady bade him adieu with one hand she made rapid signs with the other to some unknown person in the garden.
Mr. Beckendorff and Vivian were left alone, and the latter was the first to break silence.
“Mr. Beckendorff,” said he, in a calm voice, “considering the circumstances under which you have found me in your house this morning, I should have known how to excuse and to forget any irritable expressions which a moment of ungovernable passion might have inspired. I should have passed them over unnoticed. But your unjustifiable behaviour has exceeded that line of demarcation which sympathy with human feelings allows even men of honour to recognise. You have disgraced both me and yourself by giving me a blow. It is, as that lady well styled it, an outrage; an outrage which the blood of any other man but yourself could only obliterate from my memory; but while I am inclined to be indulgent to your exalted station and your peculiar character, I at the same time expect, and now wait for, an apology!”
“An apology!” said Beckendorff, now beginning to stamp up and down the room; “an apology! Shall it be made to you, sir, or the Archduchess?”
“The Archduchess;” said Vivian. “Good God! what can you mean! Did I hear you right?”
“I said the Archduchess,” answered Beckendorff, with firmness; “a Princess of the House of Austria, and the pledged wife of his Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Reisenburg. Perhaps you may now think that other persons have to apologise?”
“Mr. Beckendorff,” said Vivian, “I am overwhelmed; I declare, upon my honour—”
“Stop, sir! you have said too much already—”
“But, Mr. Beckendorff, surely you will allow me to explain—”
“Sir! there is no need of explanation. I know everything; more than you do yourself. You can have nothing to explain to me! and I presume you are now fully aware of the impossibility of again speaking to her. It is at present within an hour of noon. Before sunset you must be twenty miles from the Court; so far you will be attended. Do not answer me; you know my power. A remonstrance only, and I write to Vienna: your progress shall be stopped throughout the South of Europe. For her sake this business will be hushed up. An important and secret mission will be the accredited reason of your leaving Reisenburg. This will be confirmed by your official attendant, who will be an Envoy’s Courier. Farewell!”
As Mr. Beckendorff quitted the room, his confidential servant, the messenger of Turriparva, entered, and with the most respectful bow informed Vivian that the horses were ready. In about three hours’ time Vivian Grey, followed by the Government messenger, stopped at his hotel. The landlord and waiters bowed with increased obsequiousness on seeing him so attended, and in a few minutes Reisenburg was ringing with the news that his appointment to the Under-Secretaryship of State was now “a settled thing.”
The landlord of the Grand Hotel of the Four Nations at Reisenburg was somewhat consoled for the sudden departure of his distinguished guest by selling the plenipotentiary a travelling carriage lately taken for a doubtful bill from a gambling Russian General at a large profit. In this convenient vehicle, in the course of a couple of hours after his arrival in the city, was Mr. Vivian Grey borne through the gate of the Allies. Essper George, who had reached the hotel about half an hour after his master, followed behind the carriage on his hack, leading Max. The Courier cleared the road before, and expedited the arrival of the special Envoy of the Grand Duke of Reisenburg at the point of his destination by ordering the horses, clearing the barriers, and paying the postilions in advance. Vivian had never travelled before with such style and speed.
Our hero covered himself up with his cloak and drew his travelling cap over his eyes, though it was one of the hottest days of this singularly hot autumn. Entranced in a reverie, the only figure that occurred to his mind was the young Archduchess, and the only sounds that dwelt on his ear were the words of Beckendorff: but neither to the person of the first nor to the voice of the second did he annex any definite idea.
After some hours’ travelling, which to Vivian seemed both an age and a minute, he was roused from his stupor by the door of his calèche being opened. He shook himself as a man does who has awakened from a benumbing and heavy sleep, although his eyes were the whole time wide open. The disturbing intruder was his courier, who, bowing, with his hat in hand, informed his Excellency that he was now on the frontier of Reisenburg; regretting that he was under the necessity of quitting his Excellency, he begged to present him with his passport. “It is made out for Vienna,” continued the messenger. “A private pass, sir, of the Prime Minister, and will entitle you to the greatest consideration.”
The carriage was soon again advancing rapidly to the next post-house, when, after they had proceeded about half a mile, Essper George calling loudly from behind, the drivers suddenly stopped. Just as Vivian, to whose tortured mind the rapid movement of the carriage was some relief, for it produced an excitement which prevented thought, was about to inquire the cause of this stoppage. Essper George rode up to the calèche.
“Kind sir!” said he, with a peculiar look, “I have a packet for you.”
“A packet! from whom? speak! give it me!”
“Hush! softly, good master. Here am I about to commit rank treason for your sake, and a hasty word is the only reward of my rashness.”
“Nay, nay, good Essper, try me not now!”
“I will not, kind sir! but the truth is, I could not give you the packet while that double-faced knave was with us, or even while he was in sight. ‘In good truth,’ as Master Rodolph was wont to say—!”
“But of this packet?”
“‘Fairly and softly,’ good sir! as Hunsdrich the porter said when I would have drunk the mulled wine, while he was on the cold staircase—”
“Essper! do you mean to enrage me?”
“‘By St. Hubert!’ as that worthy gentleman the Grand Marshal was in the habit of swearing, I—”
“This is too much; what are the idle sayings of these people to me?”
“Nay, nay, kind sir! they do but show that each of us has his own way of telling a story, and that he who would hear a tale must let the teller’s breath come out of his own nostrils.”
“Well, Essper, speak on! Stranger things have happened to me than to be reproved by my own servant.”
“Nay, kind master! say not a bitter word to me because you have slipped out of a scrape with your head on your shoulders. The packet is from Mr. Beckendorff’s daughter.”
“Ah! why did you not give it me before?”
“Why do I give it you now? Because I am a fool; that is why. What! you wanted it when that double-faced scoundrel was watching every eyelash of yours as it moved from the breath of a fly? a fellow who can see as well at the back of his head as from his face. I should like to poke out his front eyes, to put him on an equality with the rest of mankind. He it was who let the old gentleman know of your visit this morning, and I suspect that he has been nearer your limbs of late than you have imagined. Every dog has his day, and the oldest pig must look for the knife! The Devil was once cheated on Sunday, and I have been too sharp for Puss in boots and his mouse-trap! Prowling about the Forest Councillor’s house, I saw your new servant, sir, gallop in, and his old master soon gallop out. I was off as quick as they, but was obliged to leave my horse within two miles of the house, and then trust to my legs. I crept through the shrubs like a land tortoise; but, of course, too late to warn you. However, I was in for the death, and making signs to the young lady, who directly saw that I was a friend; bless her! she is as quick as a partridge; I left you to settle it with papa, and, after all, did that which I suppose you intended, sir, to do yourself; made my way into the young lady’s bedchamber.”
“Hold your tongue, sir! and give me the packet.”
“There it is, and now we will go on; but we must stay an hour at the next post, if your honour pleases not to sleep there; for both Max and my own hack have had a sharp day’s work.”
Vivian tore open the packet. It contained a long letter, written on the night of her return to Beckendorff’s; she had stayed up the whole night writing. It was to have been forwarded to Vivian, in case of their not being able to meet. In the enclosure were a few hurried lines, written since the catastrophe. They were these: “May this safely reach you! Can you ever forgive me? The enclosed, you will see, was intended for you, in case of our not meeting. It anticipated sorrow; yet what were its anticipations to our reality!”
The Archduchess’ letter was evidently written under the influence of agitated feelings. We omit it; because, as the mystery of her character is now explained, a great portion of her communication would be irrelevant to our tale. She spoke of her exalted station as a woman, that station which so many women envy, in a spirit of agonising bitterness. A royal princess is only the most flattered of state victims. She is a political sacrifice, by which enraged Governments are appeased, wavering allies conciliated and ancient amities confirmed. Debarred by her rank and her education from looking forward to that exchange of equal affection which is the great end and charm of female existence, no individual finds more fatally and feels more keenly that pomp is not felicity, and splendour not content.
Deprived of all those sources of happiness which seem inherent in woman, the wife of the Sovereign sometimes seeks in politics and in pleasure a means of excitement which may purchase oblivion. But the political queen is a rare character; she must possess an intellect of unusual power, and her lot must be considered as an exception in the fortunes of female royalty. Even the political queen generally closes an agitated career with a broken heart. And for the unhappy votary of pleasure, who owns her cold duty to a royal husband, we must not forget that even in the most dissipated courts the conduct of the queen is expected to be decorous, and that the instances are not rare where the wife of the monarch has died on the scaffold, or in a dungeon, or in exile, because she dared to be indiscreet where all were debauched. But for the great majority of royal wives, they exist without a passion; they have nothing to hope, nothing to fear, nothing to envy, nothing to want, nothing to confide, nothing to hate, and nothing to love. Even their duties, though multitudinous, are mechanical, and, while they require much attention, occasion no anxiety. Amusement is their moment of great emotion, and for them amusement is rare; for amusement is the result of equal companionship. Thus situated, they are doomed to become frivolous in their pursuits and formal in their manners, and the Court chaplain or the Court confessor is the only person who can prove they have a soul, by convincing them that it will be saved.
The young Archduchess had assented to the proposition of marriage with the Crown Prince of Reisenburg without opposition, as she was convinced that requesting her assent was only a courteous form of requiring her compliance. There was nothing outrageous to her feelings in marrying a man whom she had never seen, because her education, from her tenderest years, had daily prepared her for such an event. Moreover, she was aware that, if she succeeded in escaping from the offers of the Crown Prince of Reisenburg, she would soon be under the necessity of assenting to those of some other suitor; and if proximity to her own country, accordance with its sentiments and manners, and previous connection with her own house, were taken into consideration, an union with the family of Reisenburg was even desirable. It was to be preferred, at least, to one which brought with it a foreign husband and a foreign clime, a strange language and strange customs. The Archduchess, a girl of ardent feelings and lively mind, had not, however, agreed to become that all-commanding slave, a Queen, without a stipulation. She required that she might be allowed, previous to her marriage, to visit her future Court incognita. This singular and unparalleled proposition was not easily acceded to: but the opposition with which it was received only tended to make the young Princess more determined to be gratified in her caprice. Her Imperial Highness did not pretend that any end was to be obtained by this unusual procedure, and indeed she had no definite purpose in requesting it to be permitted. It was originally the mere whim of the moment, and had it not been strongly opposed it would not have been strenuously insisted upon. As it was, the young Archduchess persisted, threatened, and grew obstinate; and the grey-headed negotiators of the marriage, desirous of its speedy completion, and not having a more tractable tool ready to supply her place, at length yielded to her bold importunity. Great difficulty, however, was experienced in carrying her wishes into execution. By what means and in what character she was to appear at Court, so as not to excite suspicion or occasion discovery, were often discussed, without being resolved upon. At length it became necessary to consult Mr. Beckendorff. The upper lip of the Prime Minister of Reisenburg curled as the Imperial Minister detailed the caprice and contumacy of the Princess, and treating with the greatest contempt this girlish whim, Mr. Beckendorff ridiculed those by whom it had been humoured with no suppressed derision. The consequence of his conduct was an interview with the future Grand Duchess, and the consequence of his interview an unexpected undertaking on his part to arrange the visit according to her Highness’s desires.
The Archduchess had not yet seen the Crown Prince; but six miniatures and a whole length portrait had prepared her for not meeting an Adonis or a Baron Trenck, and that was all; for never had the Correggio of the age of Charles the Fifth better substantiated his claims to the office of Court painter than by these accurate semblances of his Royal Highness, in which his hump was subdued into a Grecian bend, and his lack-lustre eyes seemed beaming with tenderness and admiration. His betrothed bride stipulated with Mr. Beckendorff that the fact of her visit should be known only to himself and the Grand Duke; and before she appeared at Court she had received the personal pledge both of himself and his Royal Highness that the affair should be kept a complete secret from the Crown Prince.
Most probably, on her first introduction to her future husband, all the romantic plans of the young Archduchess to excite an involuntary interest in his heart vanished; but how this may be, it is needless for us to inquire, for that same night introduced another character into her romance for whom she was perfectly unprepared, and whose appearance totally disorganised its plot.
Her inconsiderate, her unjustifiable conduct, in tampering with that individual’s happiness and affection, was what the young and haughty Archduchess deplored in the most energetic, the most feeling, and the most humble spirit; and anticipating that after this painful disclosure they would never meet again, she declared that for his sake alone she regretted what had passed, and praying that he might be happier than herself, she supplicated to be forgiven and forgotten.
Vivian read the Archduchess’s letter over and over again, and then put it in his breast. At first he thought that he had lived to shed another tear; but he was mistaken. In a few minutes he found himself quite roused from his late overwhelming stupor. Remorse or regret for the past, care or caution for the future, seemed at the same moment to have fled from his mind. He looked up to Heaven with a wild smile, half of despair and half of defiance, it seemed to imply that Fate had now done her worst, and that he had at last the satisfaction of knowing himself to be the most unfortunate and unhappy being that ever existed. When a man at the same time believes in and sneers at his Destiny we may be sure that he considers his condition past redemption.