CHAPTER XXIX. FRANK'S JOURNEY.
Our readers may, ere this, have surmised that Frank Dalton's career as a soldier was neither very adventurous nor exciting, since otherwise we should scarcely have so nearly forgotten him. When he parted with Hanserl to pursue his journey, his heart was full of warring and conflicting emotions, love of home and hope of future distinction alternately swaying him; so that while his affections drew him ever backwards, his ambitious urged him to go on.
“I could have been so happy to have lived with them,” thought he, “even as a peasant lives, a life of daily toil. I would have asked for no higher fortune than that peaceful home we had made for ourselves by our own affections, the happy fireside, that sufficed us for all the blandishments of wealth and riches. Still there would have been something ignoble in this humility, something that would ill become my blood as a Dalton. It was not thus my ancestors understood their station, it was not with such lowly ambitions their hearts were stirred. Count Stephen himself might at this hour have been in obscurity and poverty as great, perhaps, as our own had he been thus minded; and now he is a field-marshal, with a 'Maria Teresa' cross on his breast! and this without one friend to counsel or to aid him! What a noble service is that where merit can win its way self-sustained and independent, where, without the indignity of a patron, the path of honorable enterprise lies free and open to all! What generous promptings, what bold aspirations such a career engenders! He shall not be ashamed of me, he shall not have to blush for the Dalton blood,” said the boy, enthusiastically; and he revelled in a dream of the old Count's ecstasy on finding a nephew so worthy of their name, and in his fancy he saw pictures of future scenes in which he figured. All of these had the same rose tint; for while in some he imagined himself winning the high rewards of great achievements, in others he was the caressed and flattered guest of rank and beauty. “To think that I should once have been thus!” cried he, laughing at the conceit, “trudging along the high-road with a knapsack on my shoulder, like a Bursch in his 'Wander-jahre;'” and then he vowed to himself that “he would have a picture taken of his humble guise as first he started in life, to hang up at some future day beside the decorated soldier he was yet to be.”
Selfishness can wear many a mask. Sometimes it can array itself in features almost noble, more often its traits are of the very meanest. Frank's egotism was of the former kind. He wanted to attain distinction by an honorable path, he would not have stooped to any other. He was ready to do or dare all for greatness. No peril could deter, no danger could daunt him; but yet was he totally deficient in that greatest element of success, that patient discipline of the mind which, made up of humility and confidence, can wait and bide its time, earning the prizes of life before it claim them. His pride of family, however, was his greatest blemish, since it suggested a false notion of distinction, a pretension so groundless that, like a forged banknote, it was sure to involve even the bearer in disgrace.
So full was he of himself and his own future, that he took but little note of the way as he went. Avoiding, from a sense of pride, to associate with the “Travelling Youths,” as they are called, he walked along from early morning to late evening, alone and companionless. It was mostly a dreary and uninteresting road, either leading through dark and gloomy pine forests or over great plains of swampy surface, where the stubble of the tall maize, or the stunted vines, were the only traces of vegetation. As he drew near the Tyrol, however, the great mountains came in sight, while the continual ascent told that he was gradually reaching the land of glaciers and snow-peaks. Day by day he found the road less and less frequented: these lonely districts were little resorted to by the wandering apprentices, so that frequently Frank did not meet a single traveller from day-dawn till night. Perhaps he felt little regret at this, leaving him, as it did, more time for those daydreams in which he loved to revel. Now and then some giant mountain glittering in the sun, or some dark gorge thousands of feet below him, would chase away his revery, and leave him for a time in a half-bewildered and wondering astonishment; but his thoughts soon resumed their old track, and he would plod along, staff in hand, as before.
Walking from before daybreak to a late hour of the evening, Frank frequently accomplished in his day's journey as many miles as the traveller who, by post, only spent the few hours of mid-day on the road; in fact, he might have thus measured his speed, had he been less wrapped up in his own fancies, since, for several days, a caleche, drawn by three post-horses, had regularly passed him on the road, and always about the same hour.
Frank saw nothing of this; and when on a bright and frosty day he began the ascent of the Arlberg, he little knew that the carriage, about half a mile in front, had been his travelling companion for the past week. Disdaining to follow the winding high-road, Frank ascended by those foot-tracks which gain upon the zig-zags, and thus soon was miles in advance of the caleche. At last he reached the half-way point of ascent, and was glad to rest himself for a few minutes on one of the benches which German thoughtfulness for the wayfarer never neglects to place in suitable spots. A low parapet of a couple of feet separated the road from a deep and almost perpendicular precipice, at the foot of which, above two thousand feet beneath, stood the village of Stuben. There was the little chapel in which he had his morning's mass, there the little Platz, where he had seen the post-horses getting ready for the travellers; there, too, the little fountain, covered with a shed of straw, and glistening with many an icicle in the bright sun. The very voices of the people reached him where he sat; and the sounds of a street-organ floated upwards through the still atmosphere. It was a scene of peaceful isolation such as would have pleased Nelly's fancy. It was like one of those “Dorf s” she herself had often carved to amuse a winter's evening, and Frank's eyes filled up as he thought of her and of home.
The sound of feet upon the snow suddenly roused him, and, on looking round, Frank saw a traveller slowly coming up the pass. His dress at once proclaimed that he was not a pedestrian, save from choice, and was merely sauntering along in advance of his carriage. In the mere cursory glance Frank bestowed upon him he could see that he was a young and handsome man, with a certain soldierlike bearing in his air that well suited his bold but somewhat stern features.
“You journey well, young fellow,” said he, addressing Frank familiarly. “This is the fifth day we have been fellow-travellers; and although I have post-horses, you have always kept up with me on your feet.”
Frank touched his cap with a somewhat stiff courtesy at this unceremonious address; and, without deigning a reply, employed himself in arranging the straps of his knapsack.
“Are you a soldier?” asked the stranger.
“A cadet!” replied Frank as bluntly.
“In what regiment, may I ask?”
“The Franz Carl.”
“Ah! my own old corps,” said the other, gayly. “I served four years with them in the Banat. From what part of the Empire are you you have n't the accent of an Austrian?”
“I am an Irishman.”
“Oh! that explains it. And your name?”
“Dalton. And now, sir, what may be yours, for I don't see why this curiosity is to be one-sided,” said Frank, with an air even more insolent than the words.
“I am Count Ernest of Walstein,” said the other, without a touch of irritation.
“What rank do you hold in the service?” asked Frank, boldly.
“That of lieutenant-colonel, boy.”
“And your age may be about thirty?” said Frank, half in question and half in sarcasm.
“I was twenty-eight last August,” was the calm reply.
“By Jove! that is a service!” exclaimed Frank, “where a man scarcely ten years my senior may command a regiment!”
The other laughed, and after a brief pause, said, “People are in the habit of calling me fortunate, so that you must not suppose my case to be the rule.”
“Be it so: even as an exception, the example is a bright one. Another may do what you have done.”
“If you mean that I have earned my rank by services, boy,” said the Count, smiling, “you would make a grave mistake. My promotion had another source.”
Frank looked as though he were curious to hear the explanation, but the other gave none.
“How do you call yourself?” asked he of Frank, after a pause.
“Dalton,” replied the boy, more respectfully than before.
“We have a field-marshal of that name in the service, a most gallant old soldier, too.”
“My grand-uncle!” cried Frank, with enthusiasm.
“Indeed! So you are a grand-nephew to the Graf von Auersberg,” said the Count, taking a more deliberate view than he had yet bestowed upon him. “Then how comes it you are travelling in this fashion, and on foot?”
“I have not asked you why you journey in a caleche with three horses,” said Frank, insolently.
“It's my habit to do so.”
“This, then, may be mine, sir,” said Frank, throwing his knapsack on his shoulder, and preparing to depart.
“Is not the Franz Carl at Vienna?” said the Count, not seeming to notice the irritation of his manner.
“I believe so.”
“Well, then, as I am going thither, perhaps you will accept of a seat in my caleche?”
There was a frankness in the way this offer was made that suddenly routed the ill-temper Frank had fallen into. No one was less disposed than himself to accept of a favor from a perfect stranger; but the tone and manner of the proffer had, somehow, disarmed it of all appearance of such; and as he stood uncertain what answer to make, the Count added: “I 'm always lucky. I was just wishing for a travelling companion, and fortune has thrown us into acquaintanceship.”
“I don't know I can scarcely tell,” said Frank, hesitating, “how or what to answer.”
“You forget that we are comrades, Dalton or shall be, at least, in another day or two,” said the Count, familiarly; “so step in, and no more about it.”
The caleche had drawn up as he spoke, and the courier stood, cap in hand, beside the door, so that Frank had no time for any but an abrupt refusal, and that he could not give; he therefore bowed his head, and sprang in. The door was slammed sharply to, and the next moment the horses were rattling along over the snow, the merry bells of the harness jingling pleasantly as they went.
Probably no two beings could present a much stronger contrast than the two who now journeyed along side by side. The one, rich, highly placed, and distinguished with every gift of fortune at his command, and yet pleasure-sick, weary, and discontented; the other, poor, and almost friendless, full of hope, and ardent with all the buoyancy of youth. The Count was as jaded and tired of life as the cadet was eager to enjoy it. Notwithstanding perhaps we should rather say in virtue of these strong contrarieties, they made admirable travelling companions, and the road slipped away unconsciously to each.
At Innspruck they halted for a day or two, and Frank accompanied his new friend to the cafes and theatres, mingling in the throng of those whose life is a round of easy dissipation. It is true that, to conform by dress and demeanor with these, Frank was obliged to spend the golden coins of Nelly's purse; louis after louis went in some one extravagance or another, sacrifices that cost him many a pang, but which, from pride, he bore up against with seeming indifference. Walstein presented him everywhere as the nephew of the old field-marshal Von Auersberg; and as nothing was more common than to see a young cadet dispensing the most lavish sums, with equipages, liveries, and servants, none seemed surprised that the youth should indulge in these habits and tastes of extravagance. His very enjoyment seemed like an earnest of being long habituated to these modes of life, for whether he played or drank, or in whatever excesses he mingled, there was ever the same joyous spirit; and Frank Dalton had all the outward signs of a youth rich in every accident of fortune. At first, thoughts of his humble home and of those by whose sacrifices he was enabled to indulge in such costly pleasures would cross his mind, and, what between shame and sorrow, he felt degraded and debased before himself; but, by degrees, the levity of action induced, as it ever will do, the levity of thinking; and he suffered himself to believe that “he was no worse than others.” A more fatal philosophy than this, youth never adopted, and he who seeks a low standard rarely stops till he falls beneath even that. Frank's pride of family made him vain, and his vanity made him credulous; he therefore implicitly believed all that his new companions told him, the familiar “thee and thou” of camaraderie giving an air of friendship to all the flatteries.
“Were I a nephew of a field-marshal like thee, I'd not serve in an infantry corps. I 'd be in the Lichtenstein Hussars or the Lancers of the Kaiser,” said one.
“So he will,” cried another. “Dalton only joined the Franz Carl to get his promotion quickly. Once at Vienna, he will be an officer, and ready to exchange his regiment.”
“Old Auersberg can make thee what he will, lad,” said a third. “He might have been Minister of War himself, if he had liked it. The Emperor Franz loved him as a brother.”
“And he is rich, too, no one knows how rich,” broke in a fourth. “He commanded for many years on the Turkish frontier, in those good days when our Grenzers used to make forays upon the villages, and every Pashalic paid its blackmail for peace' sake.”
“Thou are a lucky dog, Dalton, to find thy promotion and an inheritance thus secured to thee.”
“When thou has a regiment, lad, don't forget us poor devils here, that have no uncles in the 'Maria Teresa' category.”
“I 'll lay my life on't, that he is a colonel before I become Rittmeister,” said a young lieutenant of dragoons, “and I have had five years' hard service in Galicia and Servia.”
“And why not?” broke in Count Walstein, who sat silently up to this smoking his meerschaum in a corner. “Has the empire lost its aristocratic character? Are not birth and blood to have their claims, as of old?”
This speech met a ready acceptance, for the company consisted of those who either were, or affected to be, of noble extraction.
“How our fathers deceive themselves in trying to deceive us!” said a young Hungarian cadet. “I, too, was sent off to join my regiment on foot. Just fancy to walk from Arad to Presburg! I, that never went twenty miles in my life save on the saddle. They fitted me with my knapsack, just such a thing as Dalton's. I suppose about as many florins jingled in my purse as in his. They gave me their blessing and a map of the road, with each day's journey marked out upon it. And how far did I go afoot, think'st thou? Two miles and a half. There I took an 'Eil Bauer,' with four good horses and a wicker caleche, and we drove our sixty, sometimes seventy miles a day. Each night we put up at some good country house or other Honyadi's Ctzyscheny's Palfi's; all lay on the road, and I found out about fifty cousins I never knew of before, and made a capital acquaintance, too, the Prince Paul of Ettlingen, who, owning a regiment of Light Dragoons, took me into his corps, and, when I joined them at Leutmeritz, I was already an officer. What stuff it is they preach about economy and thrift! Are we the sons of peasants or petty shopkeepers? It comes well, too, from them in their princely chateaux to tell us that we must live like common soldiers. So that, while yesterday, as it were, I sat at a table covered with silver, and drank my Tokay from a Venetian glass, tomorrow I must put up with sour Melniker, or, mayhap, Bavarian beer, with black bread, and a sausage to help it down! Our worthy progenitors knew better in their own young days, or we should not have so many debts and mortgages on our estates eh, Walstein?”
“I suppose the world is pretty much alike, in every age,” said the Count, laughing. “It now and then takes a virtuous fit, and affects to be better than it used to be; but I shrewdly suspect that the only difference is in the hypocritical pretension. When I entered the service and it is not so many years ago that I cannot recollect it the cant was, to resemble that rough school of the days of old Frederick and Maria Teresa. Trenck's 'Pandours,' with their scarlet breeches stuffed into their wide boot-tops, were the mode; and to wear your moustache to your shoulders to cry 'Bey'm Henker!' and 'Alle Blitzen!' every moment, were the veritable types of the soldier. Now we have changed all that. We have the Anglomania of English grooms and equipages, top-boots, curricles, hurdle-races, champagne suppers. Dalton will be the ton in his regiment, and any extravagance he likes to launch into certain to have its followers.”
The youth blushed deeply; partly in conscious pride at the flattery, partly in the heartfelt shame at its inappropriateness to himself; and even the sincerity with which his comrades drank his health, could not drown the self-reproaches he was suffering under.
“Thou art an only son, too, Dalton!” said another. “What favors fortune will shower upon one happy fellow! Here I am, one of seven; and although my father is a count of the empire, four of us have to take service in the infantry.”
“What of that?” said a dark-complexioned fellow, whose high cheek-bones and sharp under-jaw bespoke a Pole. “I am a second lieutenant in the regiment that my grandfather raised and equipped at his own cost; and if I were to lose a thousand florins at lansquenet to-morrow, I 'd be broke, like the meanest 'bursch' in the corps.”
“It's better to be a rich Englander,” cried one.
“And with a field-marshal for a grand-uncle!” chimed in another.
“And a 'Maria Teresa' to ask for thy grade as officer,” said a third.
“It's a jolly service to all of us,” said a young Bohemian, who, although but a cadet, was a prince, with a princely fortune. “I ask for nothing but a war to make it the best life going.”
“A war with whom?” cried several together.
“What care I with whom or where? With Prussia, if you will, to fight out our old scores about Frauconia; with Russia, if you like better, for the Danubian provinces, and her Servian supremacy; with France she 's always ready, with a cause or without one; with Italy to round off our frontier, and push our limits to the Apennines; I'd say with England, only Dalton might n't like it.”
“And where would you pick your quarrel with England?” said Frank, laughing.
“Easily enough, through our ambassador at the Porte, or some outlying station, where Russia is her rival.”
“Hang your politics!” broke in a Hungarian. “Let us fight when the time comes, but not bother our heads about the cause. I 'd rather take my chance of a sabre-cut any day than addle my brains with too much thought. Here 's to you, Dalton, mayst soon be a Rittmeister of Hussars, lad; a prouder thing thou needst not ask for.”
“Thou shalt give us a jolly supper at the 'Schwan,' Dalton, when we meet at Vienna,” said another.
“And we'll pledge those fair sisters of thine and they 're both handsome, I 'll be sworn in the best Tokay Palfi's vineyard can yield.”
“My regiment will be in garrison, in the Leopoldstadt, next month, and I'll remind thee of this pledge.”
“And we shall be at Lintz,” broke in another; “and thou mayst reckon on me, if I have to suffer an arrest for it afterwards.”
“So it is agreed, Dalton, we are thy guests. For what day shall it be?”
“Ay, let us name the day,” cried several together.
“When he is named an officer,” said Walstein, “that will be time enough.”
“Nay, nay the day month after he arrives at Vienna,” cried the Bohemian. “I have given three breakfasts and five suppers on the occasion of my promotion, and the promotion has never come yet.”
“The day month after I arrive, then, be it,” said Dalton. “We meet at where is it?”
“The 'Schwan,' lad, the first restaurant of Europe. Let men talk as they will of the Cadran Bleu and the Trois Freres, I'd back Hetziuger's cook against the world; and as for wine, he has Steinkammer at thirty florins the flask! And we'll drink it, too, eh, Dalton? and we'll give a 'Hoch Lebe' to that old grandfather or grand-uncle of thine. We'll add ten years to his life.”
“A poor service to Dalton,” said another; “but here comes Walstein's horses, and now for the last glass together before we part.”
The parting seemed, indeed, to be “sweet sorrow,” for each leave-taking led to one flask more, friendship itself appearing to make wondrous progress as the bottle went round. The third call of the postilion's bugle a summons that even German loyalty could scarcely have courage to resist at last cut short the festivities, and Frank once more found himself in the caleche, where at least a dozen hands contested for the last shake of his, and a shower of good wishes mingled with the sounds of the crashing wheels.
“Glorious fellows!” cried Dalton, in an ecstasy of delight; “such comrades are like brothers.”
Walstein smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, and lighted his meerschaum in silence; and thus they journeyed, each too full of his own thoughts to care for converse. It was not at such a moment that Dalton could give way to dark or serious reflections; the blandishments and caresses of his new friends were too powerful to admit of any rivalry in his mind; and even when he did revert to thoughts of home, it was to picture to himself his father's pride at seeing him in the society of these high-born youths; of Kate's delight at the degree of notice he attracted; and even Nelly poor Nelly! he fancied yielding a gentle, half-reluctant assent to a companionship which, if costly and expensive, was sure to be honorable and high-minded.
“What would Hanserl say, too,” thought he, “if he saw me seated at the table with those whose high-sounding names are the pride of Austrian chivalry, the Thuns, the Lichtensteins, the Schwartenschilds, and the Walsteins, families old as the Hapsburgs themselves? Little Hanserl, to whom these glorious families were the great lights of history, oh, if he could have set eyes on me this last evening! when, with arms around my neck, they called me comrade!” From this he wandered on to thoughts of his uncle, investing the old field-marshal with every noble and soldierlike attribute, and, above all, fancying him as overflowing with affection and kindness. What hosts of questions did he ask about his father and his sisters; how often had he to repeat their names and paint their resemblances, going over the most minute details of family history, and recounting the simplest incidents of their daily life, for “Uncle Stephen would know all.”
In such pleasant fancies he fell fast asleep, even in his dreams to carry out those imaginings that, waking, had no control of reason.
Frank Dalton was awaked from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream of home by the hoarse voice of a mounted dragoon, ordering the postilion to halt; and, on looking out, he saw that they were drawn up close beside the angle of the great wooden bridge that crosses the Danube, under the walls of Vienna. The whole scene was one of wonderment and surprise to him. At his feet, as it were, rolled the stream of the rapid Danube; its impetuous flood splashing and foaming amid the fragments of ice floated down from the mountain regions, and which every moment were shivered against the stone breakwaters with the crash of thunder. Beyond the river rose the fortified walls of the city, covered with a dense multitude of people, eager spectators of a grand military display, which, with all the pomp of war, poured forth beneath the dark archway of the entrance-gate, and, winding over the “glacis,” crossed the bridge, and held on its course towards the Prater.
It was a clear, bright day of winter; the blue sky almost cloudless, and the sharp outline of every object stood out, crisp and well defined, in the thin atmosphere. Nothing could be more favorable for the effect of such a spectacle. The bright weapons glanced and glittered like silver, the gay trappings and brilliant uniforms showed in all their splendor, the scarlet Lancers, the blue-clad Hussars, the Cuirassiers, with their towering helmets, vied with each other in soldierlike bearing; while the dense mass of infantry moved along with a surging, waving motion, like a vast sea heaving with a ground-swell. It was an army complete in every detail; for, even to the “ambulances” for the wounded, everything was there.
“A review by the Emperor!” said Walstein; “and see, there comes his staff.” And he pointed to a group of horsemen, whose waving plumes and floating dolmans were seen at a little distance off in the plain.
“Oh, let us follow them!” cried Frank, enthusiastically. “Such a glorious sight as this I never even imagined.”
“You 'll see enough, perhaps too many such,” said the Count, languidly. “It's a favorite pastime of our old General's to drag us out of quarters in the very depth of winter, and spend a day in the snow of the Prater.”
“Who could have a thought for weather or hardship when engaged in such a scene?” said Frank.
“So, evidently, think those worthy field-marshals and generals of division, who, well mounted, and swathed in furs, canter down to the ground, an hour after we have reached it, and ride back again when they have 'taken the salute,' leaving us to plod wearily home, through wet roads and sloppy streets, to our cold barracks. But just the reverse is the opinion of those poor fellows yonder, with blue faces and frostbitten knuckles, and who have neither pride in this display, nor sympathy with the success of what is called 'a fine manoeuvre.'”
Frank shook his head distrustfully. He wished not to credit the opinion, but knew not how to refute it, and was silent.
“That is the 'Franz Carl,' Dalton,” said Walstein, pointing to a column of infantry, who, in their dark gray overcoats, seemed a sad-looking, gloomy mass. “They've got the best band and the most savage colonel in the service.”
Frank gazed at the regiment with a strange sensation of awe and fear.
“There lies my destiny!” thought he. “Who knows what friendships or enmities await me yonder? What hearts in that dark mass will beat responsively with my own; what sources of sorrow or affliction may I meet with amongst them!”
“I wish thou hadst a better regiment, Dalton,” said Walstein.
“How a better? Is it not a brave and distinguished corps?”
“Brave enough,” said the other, laughing; “and as for distinction, an Archduke owns and commands it. But that is not what I mean. The regiment is a poor one; the officers are from Upper Austria, with little or no fortune, fellows who dine for a zwanziger, play dominos for two kreutzers, waltz at the wine-gardens, and fight duels with sabres.”
Frank laughed at the description; but his laugh had more of gloom than mirth about it, for he felt at every moment the false position be occupied, and how inextricably complicated his circumstances were becoming. Every allusion to others showed him in what light he was himself regarded. “Was his deception honorable? was it possible to continue it?” were the questions that would obtrude upon him, and for which no ingenuity could find answer.
“There 's the corps for you, Dalton,” said Walstein, drawing his attention to the “Hungarian Guard,” all glittering with gold embroidery, and mounted upon the most beautiful white chargers, at once the most perfect riders and the best mounted cavalry in Europe. “In that regiment you are certain of being quartered either here or in Prague. Those laced jackets are too costly wear to send down to the Banat, or among the wilds of Wallachia. Besides, the Empress likes to see these gaudy fellows on their 'schimmels' beneath the Palace windows. Your uncle will, of course, grumble a little about the cost. Perhaps your father, too, will look a little grave when he hears of six thousand florins for a 'dolman,' and four for a 'schabrach;' while ten or twelve horses the very least you could keep would scarcely sound like a moderate stable. Still, depend upon it, the corps is as good for service as it is costly, and Creptowitz, their Colonel, is a true hussar.”
For a moment Dalton hesitated whether he should not make the honest avowal of his narrow fortune, and tell that he had no pretension to such habits of cost and expense; but shame was too powerful to permit the acknowledgment. He had already gone too far to retract, and he felt that any candor now would be the confession of a cheat. If these were harassing and torturing reflections, one flickering ray of hope still glimmered through the gloom; and this was, what he might expect from his uncle. “If he be really rich, as they say,” thought Frank, “if his favor be so great with the Emperor, even such a career as this may not be above my prospects.” As he revolved these thoughts, he sat with his head buried between his hands, forgetful of where he was and all around him.
“You 're losing everything, Dalton,” said Walstein. “See, there go the 'Kaiser Jagers,' with their bugles, the finest in the service; and yonder are the Lichtenstein 'Light Horse,' mounted on thorough-bred cattle; and there, to the left, those savage-looking fellows with long beards, they are the 'Croat Grenadiers.' But here comes the Emperor!” And, as he spoke, one deafening cheer burst forth along the line, and was echoed back from the walls of Vienna; while every band struck up the national hymn of Austria, and the proud notes of “God preserve the Emperor!” floated through the air.
A brilliant staff of generals of every arm of the service accompanied “the Kaiser;” and Walstein ran quickly over the names of these, many of whom were among the first nobility of the Empire. Some were the war-worn veterans of the great campaigns; some the young hopes of Austrian chivalry; but, conspicuous above all, was a figure whose stature, as well as the singularity of his uniform, attracted Frank's notice. He was a very tall old man, dressed in a uniform of purple velvet slashed with gold, and actually covered with the crosses and decorations of various orders. His cap was a tall chako of red-brown fur, from which a long, straight scarlet plume floated, and beneath which his gray hair was fastened in a queue, that hung half-way down his back. Yellow buskins ornamented with massive gold spurs completed a costume which seemed almost a compromise between the present and some bygone age.
The figure of the wearer, too, suited well this impression. There was a stern rigidity of look as he sat still and motionless in his saddle, which relaxed into the polished urbanity of an old courtier as often as the Emperor addressed him. When bowing to the mane of his charger, he seemed the very type of courtesy; while, as he retired his horse, there was all the address and ease of a practised rider.
“There, to the left of Walmoden, on the powerful black horse, do you see that handsome old man in the purple tunic?” said Waldstein.
“I have been watching him for several minutes back,” replied Frank. “What a singular uniform!”
“Yes. It was the dress of the Artillery of the Imperial Guard in the days of Wagram and Lobau; and he is permitted to retain it, by a special leave of the Emperor, a favor he only avails himself of on occasions like the present.”
“What a mass of orders he wears!”
“He has all that the Empire can bestow, from the 'Iron Cross' to the 'Maria Teresa.' He has the 'Legion of Honor,' too, sent him by Napoleon himself! It was that officer who at Elchingen rode up to the head of a French column, and told them that the wagons they were pursuing were the 'ammunition of the rear-guard!' 'If you advance,' said he, 'we 'll fire them, and blow you and ourselves to atoms!' The coolness and heroism of the daring were well acknowledged by a brave enemy. The French halted, and our train proceeded on its way. Mayhap you have heard the anecdote before?”
“Never,” said Frank, still gazing with admiration at the old soldier.
“Then I may as well tell you that he is the Count Dalton von Auersberg,” said Walstein, lying back to enjoy the youth's amazement.
“What! Uncle Stephen? Is that our uncle?” burst out Frank, in delight.
“I wish I could call him 'ours,' with all my heart,” said Walstein, laughing. “Any man might well be proud of such a relative.”
But Frank never heard or heeded the remark; his whole soul was wrapped up in the contemplation of the old field marshal, on whom he gazed as a devotee might have done upon his saint.
“He 's like my father,” muttered Frank, half aloud; “but haughtier-looking, and older. A true Dalton in every feature! How I long to speak to him, to tell him who I am.”
“Not here, though, not here!” said Walstein, laying his hand on the youth's arm; for he almost feared lest he should give way to the sudden impulse. “Were you even the Colonel of your regiment, you could not approach him now.”
Frank stared with some surprise at a remark which seemed to treat so slightingly the ties of blood and kindred; while Walstein, by no means easy on the score of his companion's prudence, gave the word to the postilion to drive on; and they entered the city of Vienna.