CHAPTER XII. VIENNA.
We cannot afford to linger in Vienna, nor speak of the week—the most brilliant of all her life—Kate passed there. It was the first burst of that ambition which had so long taken possession of her, and she saw herself, at length, in all the pride of her station, and her beauty the object of a hundred flatteries.
Fêted at the Court, distinguished by the special attentions of the Princes, most courteously received in all the society of the most exclusive capital of Europe, the whirl of pleasure and excitement as effectually precluded thought as it defied reflection. Hitherto she had seen the world only as a dependant, or at least as something appertaining to Lady Hester, in whose caprices she was bound to share, making partnery, as it were, in all her likings and dislikings; but now she was become the centre around which all these attentions revolved, and her own will was the directing impulse of every action.
Of all the cities of the Continent, Vienna was most remarkable for almost instinctively adopting the tone of its Court in respect to a distinguished visitor. There was something like intuition in the way in which they guessed the feeling of royalty, and as quickly made it their own.
The restricted limits of the first society, of course, made this practicable, as well as the fact that all belonging to it were more or less engaged in the service of the Emperor. Kate Dalton was now to enjoy this flattery, and find herself, wherever she went, the special object of attention.
At the Hof Theatre, where they played her favorite operas; at the great reviews in the Prater, at the balls of the palace, or the déjeûners of Schonbrunn, she seemed the occasion of the fête, and to do her honor all appeared assembled. Carried away by the triumphant delight of pleasure so associated with power, she either forgot at times the price at which her greatness had been purchased, or was disposed to still the beatings of her heart by the thought, “My destiny is chosen; it is too late to look back.” To have grieved over her lot, besides, would have seemed an utter selfishness, seeing that she was the means of dispensing such happiness to all her family. Her poor father placed once more in comfort; Nelly free to follow the dictates of her charming fancy, without the alloying sense of toil; and dear Frank, in all the exuberant joy of his promotion, eternally reminding her that she was his patroness. The quick clatter of his charger's hoofs in the courtyard, the clank of his sabre as he ran up the stairs, were but the glad prelude to his daily outpouring of gratitude. Ay, “to be sorry now, would be but selfish.”
Such was the philosophy in which she wrapped herself; and day after day the feeling gained strength within her. It was true there were moments when all the sophistry gave way, and her affections flowed full and strong in the deep channels of her heart. Then, indeed, she saw the emptiness of all this gorgeous parade,—how little it gave of real happiness,—how seldom it ever called forth one generous feeling, or one high desire, and she wished the fates had dealt otherwise with her. At times she almost longed for the humble home, in all its poverty, with nothing but Nelly's bright smile and gentle voice to cheer its solitude! It may have been this conflict——for conflict it was—that gave to her demeanor a certain calm dignity, which, in the critical estimation of society, elevated her high above any charge of frivolity or capriciousness. She was a thought graver, perhaps, than her years; but the feeling imparted an indescribable grace to one whose beauty was the very type of brilliancy. After all, these were but passing clouds; nor did she ever suffer herself to recur to the past, save when wayward memories would obtrude uncalled for.
At last a letter came from Lady Hester; and although not a long one, it called up thoughts that all her endeavors could not efface from recollection. There were, once again, all the old familiar names with which she used to be so conversant.
Lady Hester, however, was much changed: all the capricious irritability of the fine lady had given place to a kind of importunate piety. She had grown “devote,” and her life a string of religious observances. After dwelling complacently on the self-imposed round of her mortifications and penances, she went on:——
“D'Esmonde has just returned, and delights me by saying that
you are quite free from any contagion as to the errors of
the Greek Church. Of course, outwardly, you must conform;
even if Midchekoff did not insist, his countrymen would; but
he says that St. Ursula is the sure resource in such cases,
and mentions the instance of a nun who took lessons in
Spanish from the Devil, and, by the aid of the blessed
Ursula, was nothing the worse.
“I told Jekyl, who left this on Friday, to send me an image
of St. Ursula, that I might forward it to you; but the
careless wretch has sent me a statuette of Fanny Elssler by
mistake. He discovered his error, however, and has written
me a most humble letter, mentioning, by the way, that he was
doing a 'Novena' for penance, and danced the polka all the
preceding night with a sharp peg in the sole of his foot.
With all his oddity, there is a great deal to like in him.
“I have only once heard from the Onslows; their conduct has
been too shocking; they are not ruined at all, but got up
the story, I verily believe, just to destroy my nerves. Sir
S. is living in Ireland, at that place with the horrid name
your father used to talk of, with Sydney; and George has
gone to India, a major, I think, in some cavalry regiment.
At Grounsell's kind suggestion, I have been cut off with a
miserable allowance of fifteen hundred a year; but even with
this I am content. St. Brigitta, of Cleves, lived on hard
peas, and never wore anything but an old sack for the last
seventeen years of her life; and Célestine has got a
charming pattern of a capote, à la Cistercine, which, when
made of white cashmere, will be perfectly simple and very
becoming. I wear my hair now always in bands, and very low
on the face. D'Esmonde says I 'm the image of the Madonna of
Domenichino, which you may remember, I always preferred to
Raphael's.
“Cardinal Bruschetti has been spending a few days here, and
I cannot tell you the charm I have felt in his society,
contrasted with the frivolous dissipation I have been used
to. He is so suave, and so gentle, so persuasive, without
importunity, and so conciliating withal. Not the least
austerity about him; but at times actually gay! He quite
approves of my having kept Fripponi as my cook. 'A change of
cuisine,' said he, 'involves a change of digestion, a change
of temperament, and a moral change;' alterations far too
important to be incurred at once. This is so far pleasant as
certainly the man is an admirable artist. His Eminence said
yesterday that the salmi of ortolans was a dish fit for the
Pope. We drive out, or row, every day, on the lake, and I
shall be quite lonely when he leaves this. I am curious to
know if you remember a bust of him in the Vatican. He was,
and indeed is, a remarkably handsome man; and his leg has
been modelled I can't say how often. He asks me to whom I am
writing, and begs you will remember him in your prayers, how
touchingly simple, is it not?
“I ventured last night on a bit of importunity, and asked
his Eminence a favor. That poor dear Jekyl, you know, is
miserably off. His family, all so wealthy, he says, only
allow him a few hundreds a year; and with his generous
habits and wastefulness this must be actual want. Well, I
asked the Cardinal if there might not be some way of sending
him out as a missionary—like St. Vincent de Paul. I 'm
certain he 'd not like the dress nor the bare feet, but he
'd be so happy with those charming Tonga islanders, who,
such is their zeal, that they actually give four and five
scalps for a wax image of the Virgin. His Eminence hinted
that there might be difficulties, and he'd think of it I
“Your Prince passed through here on Tuesday, on his way to
Naples; he wants to see 'La Giovina' dance in that new
ballet of 'Paradiso.' They say she is perfectly lovely. The
Prince asked after you, and said something about its not
being etiquette for him to write to you, or that you should
write first, or, I really forget what; you know the slurring
way he has of talking, and how he walks away before he has
finished. He's worse than ever, I think, or probably it is
I that have less patience with him now since you are gone!
“Jekyl told me—in strict confidence, remember—that M. did
not stand well with his Court, and that there would be
nothing wonderful in the Czar's refusing his leave for the
marriage. What you ought to do in that case I cannot
conceive; a convent, I suppose, would be the only thing.
After all, it might probably have been as well if you had
taken poor George. The estate is still a good one, and he
has some amiable points in his character, and he certainly
loved you. I never told you the thousand confessions he made
me, nor his entreaties for my intercession, but there is no
harm now in letting you hear them. It is, however,
impossible to say with whom one could live happily!
George begged of me to send him every letter you wrote to
me, and of course you can use the knowledge of the fact at
your discretion.
“Now, for two little commissions, my dear Kate, and I have
done. I want you to get me a case of Tokay from the Teleki
estate—mind, not Pain's, which, his Eminence says, wants
the oily flavor. Some of the archdukes will manage this for
you. I 'm certain your long eyelashes have got further than
this already. The second is to send me a haunch of Bohemian
venison,—Schwartenschild's, if possible. The Cardinal says
that fat is become as scarce as true piety, and that a well-
fed buck is as rare as a good Christian!
“Are they wearing their corsages pointed at the back?——not
that I care, dearest, for I am above such vanities, but
Célestine wishes to know. When you receive the St. Ursula,
keep her in your own room, and with her face to the west;
and so good-by, and, with many prayers, believe me,
“Affectionately yours,
“THEODOSIA,
“Late Hester Onslow.
“Could you, by any chance, send me a good miniature of
yourself?——perhaps you guess for what purpose.
Haselquist's oil picture is too large for what I want; and,
besides, is really not like you. Even with all its
imperfections his Eminence sits looking at it for hours of
an evening, and says he can scarcely fancy anything
lovelier. I do not ask after Madame de H., for I hate the
woman. His Eminence has told me such things of her! But of
course you can only make the best of it for the present, and
get on as well as you can.
“D'Esmonde tells me that Frank is a fine boy, and very good-
looking, but fearfully dissipated, but I suppose the service
is like the Life Guards with us—and what can one expect? À
propos to this, Norwood has written to me twice some
inexplicable nonsense about you, which I have not replied
to. What does he mean by 'treating a flirt like a flounce'
Jekyl says that the police have stopped his passport, or he
should have been after you to Vienna. This is quite
unintelligible to me, and I don't know why I repeat it.”
Never did a frivolous letter give more serious thought, nor bring gloomier reflections, than did this epistle to Kate Dalton. Her mind dwelt far less on the paragraph which concerned her own future than on that which spoke of George,—his devoted affection and his enduring sorrow! And so it was true that he loved her! He had even confided the avowal to another, and asked for aid and counsel. Why had he then concealed it from herself? Was the fault hers? Had her own conduct been the reason? Had her encouragement of any other estranged him, or was the teaching of the society in which she moved the reason? Poor fellow! how unfairly had she treated him,——even to that very last incident of their last meeting!—and now they were to meet no more! No, death itself could not more effectually separate them than did space and destiny. Even this she felt to be better, far better, than the chances of renewed intimacy in the world. Lady Hester had not told her why she had never divulged her secret; still less to what end she revealed it now, when the knowledge must be only misery. The mention of Norwood, and the vague half-threat connected with his name, gave her but little uneasiness, since her mind had but space for one absorbing thought,—George loved her! There was the sum of every reflection; and all the world around her, in its splendor or its brilliancy, the tortuous paths of political intrigue, the quiet byways of home-affection, the present and the future, were all as nothing when weighed against this one thought.
If her first impression had been to blame Lady Hester for revealing the secret, her second was to thank her with her whole heart. She remembered D'Esmonde, too, and the reasonings by which he accompanied the delivery of the letter; and she felt that this consciousness was a blessing of which no vicissitude could rob her,—that come what might of disappointment or sorrow in life, here, at least, in her heart of hearts, was one hoarded treasure to compensate for all. If there were but one to whom she could confide her secret, with whom she could talk over her sorrow, she thought that she would be contented. To Nelly she dared not; to Frank she could not speak of it; what, then, of Nina? Alas! it was no longer a secret to her! Nina had seen the picture, and although nothing in her manner betrayed the slightest consciousness, Kate knew her too well not to feel herself in her power.
Nina's demeanor, however, exhibited nothing of insolent triumph; on the contrary, her manner was gentle, even to submissiveness, and something almost affectionate seemed to mingle with the feeling in which she fulfilled her duties. Kate remarked this, and only needed the courage to take advantage of it At first the very idea of Nina's consciousness was torture; but day by day this terror grew weaker, till at last she actually wished that the moment of explanation was over, and that she could pour out all her griefs before her. “She may have loved unhappily, herself; and if so, will pity me. In any case, a frank avowal on my part will show that I knew nothing of his heart, and but little of my own, till 'too late.' We are never to meet again,” and so-and-so; in fact, with many a casuistry, she satisfied herself that mere memory could never be a sin,—that there could be nothing very wrong in looking back as often as the future seemed lowering and gloomy. It is hard to say if there might not have been some leaven of “pique” in these reasonings. The Prince, according to Lady Hester, if he had not entirely forgotten, was already indifferent about her. Some uncertainty of ceremonial prevented his writing or hearing from her; and at this very moment he was following out the ordinary life of dissipation which he led before. Why care for him,——why even endeavor to nourish an affection that must be blighted in the end? Besides, her marriage was never one of inclination; Lady Hester had been most frank in explaining the Prince's appreciation of it As to her own reasons for the step, she knew them too well.
All that Kate had seen of life in her Florence experiences told her that such cases were the ordinary events of the world. Few were happily married,—disparity of age, inequality of condition, incompatible tempers, and a hundred other causes were ever at work. Lady Hester used to tell her that nobody was ever satisfied with their “married lot: the good and right-minded only pined under it; the less scrupulous proclaimed their dissatisfaction to the world, and asked for sympathy.” These were the two categories that comprehended all her theory. Now Kate was quite resolved to be one of the former class; but she saw no reason why she ought not to have one “confidante” of her cares.
With all the force of these persuasions she could not get over the awkwardness of the confession, and would have given worlds that Nina herself would take the first step. That simple-minded creature, however, appeared dead to every hint or suggestion,—she could never see the drift of any remark, save in its most obvious sense, and actually pushed Kate's temper to the last entrenchment of patience by pure stupidity. “Is it possible—can it be that I am deceived—that she has not recognized the miniature?” thought Kate. “Is my secret still in my own keeping?”
As this thought struck her, everything appeared to confirm it,—the girl's manner, devoid of every trait of imperiousness, and actually humble to servility. “Oh, if I could but be sure of this,—if I could know that I could bury both my shame and my sorrow together!” In this vacillating state of suspense—one day all hope and confidence, the next, terror and dread—she lived on, till the period drew nigh for their departure from Vienna.
Madame de Heidendorf had delayed beyond her intention, in the hope of receiving some French news; and Kate eagerly watched the post for some tidings from home,—for home it still was, in every feeling of her heart
“No letters again, Nina?” said she, despondingly, as the maid entered the room.
“None, Madame.”
“Have your friends forgotten you, Nina, as well as mine appear to have done?”
“Nina has but few friends, Madame; and still fewer would think of writing to her!”
“Poor Nina!” said Kate, affectionately; and the blood rushed to the girl's face at the words, and her eyes flashed with an expression of sudden passion.
“No pity, Madame,——no pity!” cried she, with a voice full of emotion, “or I may forget myself,—forget myself and you also!” And with these words she hurried from the room, without waiting for more. Kate sat shocked and abashed by the girl's violence, and yet neither daring to reprove her nor even remonstrate with her. What abject slavery was this to feel! How mean did she seem to her own heart! What rottenness was within that gilded splendor by which she was surrounded! Where was the ambitious envy with which she once looked up to the rich and powerful now? Where that intense desire to be among the great and the titled? and with whom would she not have changed conditions, even to Nina herself?
It is not weak of heart and low of courage that one should face the great journey of life. Its trials and crosses, even to the most fortunate, demand all that we can summon of hope and of energy. And yet so was it that she was about to begin the road—the long and dreary road—before her! As she sat thus musing, a great noise was heard from the street without. She arose and opened the window. The whole Platz was crammed with people, eagerly talking and gesticulating. A surging, waving motion, too, seemed to sway them, and at length she could detect that they were slowly proceeding onward towards the gate of the city. The deep roll of a drum then turned her attention, and, in the far distance, she saw the glancing bayonets of an infantry column as they advanced.
Military spectacles are of too frequent recurrence in Vienna to create much surprise or excitement; and yet, evidently, from the looks and gestures of the people, they were both present here. The band of a regiment struck up the national hymn of Austria; and as the proud notes swelled into the air, a dark body of Tyrolese Jâgers poured into the Platz. Still there was no enthusiasm of the people. They listened to the loyal sounds in cold apathy. To the Tyrolese succeeded a Grenadier battalion, after which came a long dense column of infantry of the line, their knapsacks on their backs, and their bread rations strapped above them. Behind these was the artillery, the long-tailed black horses giving a solemn look to the procession, as its clanking sounds fell mournfully on the ear. From the wide Platz they now moved on, and passing out of the Körtner gate, defiled into the “Glacis.” But a moment before and that immense space was empty; and now, from every avenue of the city, troops came pouring in like rivers to the sea. The black-plumed hunters from Tyrol, the gigantic Croat Grenadiers, the swarthy Bohemian Cuirassiers, and the white-cloaked dragoons of Austria,—all were seen advancing and forming as if in battle array. While Kate's eye ranged eagerly over the field in search of the blue uniform of the Hungarians, Madame de Heidendorf entered the room with an open letter in her hand.
“What can this mean?” asked Kate, anxiously. “It is surely not a mere review?”
“Far from it, Madame,” said the Countess, imposingly. “The great drama is about to begin. News has come that Italy is in open revolt, and fresh troops are to be despatched thither with all speed. Twelve thousand are to march today, eight more to-morrow.”
“And Frank—”
She stopped, abashed by the disdainful expression of Madame de Heidendorf s face.
“Your brother's regiment, Madame, will form part of the force, and he will, of course, contribute the importance of his presence. How happily constituted must be the mind that can turn from the grand theme of a whole nation's destiny to the petty fortunes of a corporal or a sous-lieutenant!”
“And yet so it is,” replied Kate, boldly; “dear Frank is nearer to my heart than all that I see yonder. Oh, yes, Madame,” cried she, replying to the glance of scorn the Countess bestowed, “it is quite true. Mine is an ignoble spirit. My affections are linked with lowly objects; would that my ambitions had never risen above them!”
What reply Madame de Heidendorf might have given to this speech, so much more daring than she had uttered before, there is no knowing, when Frank burst into the room, and clasped his sister in his arms.
“I have but a moment, Kate, and we are off—off to Italy;” and then, seeing the Countess, the boy bowed courteously, and apologized for his abrupt entrance. “Count Stephen has got the command, and placed me on his staff.”
“I hope you may merit this proof of his confidence, sir,” said Madame de Heidendorf, haughtily.
“Frank will be a brave soldier, Madame,” broke in Kate. “He is a Dalton.”
“He must be true as well as brave. Fidelity is needed now as much as valor.”
“And who will dare to question mine?” cried Frank; and then, as if impatient that he should have been led away from a dearer theme, he placed his arm within Kate's, and drew her towards the window. “I had so much to say to you, my dearest sister. I have been thinking of nothing but you—and—and—what you told me. I would break off this match——it is not too late—you are only betrothed.”
“Oh, no, no, Frank; do not give me such counsels. I am pledged in word and bound in honor. I have taken a solemn vow.”
“But you have been deceived,—I know you have; enough that I see such a woman as that your companion. I tell you again, you must break it off.”
“I cannot,—I cannot!”
“Then, by Heaven! I will do it myself. It surely is not for all the glitter of this state and pomp that you would sell your affections? These gauds have not corrupted you already? No, no, I read you better than that Listen to my plan, then,—do not leave this till you hear from me. If this lady—I do not know her name—insists on your departure, be as peremptory, and say that you wish to see your family first. You are not a slave, and cannot be coerced.”
“I will hear no more of this, Frank; the very thought is maddening. No, no, Frank; if you would be my friend, teach me how to fulfil my duty, my sworn, pledged allegiance; do not seek to shake my faith, nor make me less resolute in honor.”
“It is, then, as I feared,” cried he, passionately; “these cursed bribes have bought you. Oh, it is not thus Nelly would have been won!”
“I know it,—I know it well!” cried she, bursting into tears; “but I never was like her.”
“But you were, and you are, dearest,” said he, kissing her forehead, “our own sweet Kate, that we were all so proud of. Oh, forgive me if I said what could hurt you, for I would pour out my heart's blood to serve or to save you.”
There was a mournful emphasis on the last two words, which bespoke their deep meaning; and now, locked in each other's arms, they wept bitterly.
“As the Field-Marshal von Auersberg has just ridden into the palace, his aide-de-camp ought probably to dry his tears and receive him,” said Madame de Heidendorf, as she sailed proudly out of the room.
“You heard that, Kate?——you heard what she said to me? Think, then, what kindness and sympathy she will feel for you!” said the boy, as he dashed his hand indignantly against his forehead. “Was I not right about these Russians?”
“Come, Frank, let us go to Uncle Stephen,” said Kate, trying to smile and seem at ease; and hand-in-hand they descended the stairs together.
The drawing-room into which they now entered was filled with officers of different arms of the service, among whom Count Dalton stood conspicuous, both from his size and the soldierlike character of a figure that not even old age seemed able to impair.
“How provoking, my sweet niece,” said he, taking Kate's hand between both his, “now to part, just as I was learning the happiness of knowing you. Here are all these gentlemen grumbling and complaining about leaving their homes and families, and yet I 'll wager there is not one amongst them carries away a heavier heart than I do. Come into this room, my dear; let us have five minutes together.” And Kate took his arm, while he led her forward. Madame de Heidendorf, meanwhile, seated herself on a sofa, and summoned the most distinguished officers of the party to inform her as to all that was going forward.
It was one of her favorite affectations to be deeply versed in military tactics; not that she acknowledged herself deficient in any art or science, but soldiering was her strong point. She therefore questioned and cross-questioned these unhappy gentlemen at great length.
“You have no mortars? Do I hear you aright. Colonel Rabowsky? No mortars?”
“None, Madame.”
“And how, may I ask, do you mean to reduce Milan to ashes?”
This was a very puzzling question; and she repeated it in a still more commanding tone.
“Perhaps that may not be deemed desirable, Madame,” modestly insinuated another officer.
“Not desirable, sir? you said not desirable. Why, really I shall begin to fancy I ought to go to school again in military matters. Are you aware, sir, it's the very centre of these wretches; that it is fed from Switzerland and Piedmont with all that is infamous in political doctrine? Milan must be bombarded, sir!”
The Colonel bowed courteously to an opinion expressed with so much authority.
“You 'll find, at least, that the Field-Marshal will be of my opinion,” continued she. “As a military position, it is worth nothing.”
“But as a capital city, Madame?” mildly interposed the Colonel.
“The old story,” said she, contemptuously. “Women and children!”
“Most legitimate objects of protection, I trust, Madame.”
But she turned contemptuously away, as if controversy with such an adversary was beneath her.
“We have three rocket-batteries, Madame,” interposed a staff officer, desirous of offering himself to her notice.
“I hope you will use them with effect, sir. I envy you the pleasure of seeing them plunging amidst that vile mob it is the fashion to call the people nowadays.”
“I hope we shall do our duty, Madame,” said an old, stern-looking major, who felt little flattered at this interference.
“I should like to see more chivalry,——more ardent devotion in the defenders of a monarchy,” said the Countess. “I can understand coldness in the lower classes, but that the well-born and the noble should be apathetic and slow to move is beyond my comprehension.”
“Bey'm Blitzen,” retorted the Major, “that is not bad I Here we are going to shed our blood for the Kaiser, and we are told that it is not enough, without we are born counts and barons.”
“What is it, Heckenstein?” said Count Dalton, as he entered the room and laid his hand familiarly on the other's shoulder. “I have seldom seen you look so angry.”
But the old soldier turned away without a reply.
“Madame de Heidendorf,” said the old General, “I know not what you have said to offend an old and tried servant of the Emperor,—a soldier of Wagram and Auster-litz,—a faithful follower, when the fortunes of this great Empire were at the lowest But, believe me, these are not times to flout loyalty and despise fidelity.”
“The times are worse than I thought them,” said the Countess, “when these principles have infected such men as Count Dalton. I had certainly hoped that his young relative would have received a very different lesson at his outset in life, nor can I wonder if such teachings end in evil. Here is the Archduke. How I wish his Highness had come a little earlier!”
As she spoke, the Prince entered, with all the careless ease of his ordinary manner. It was impossible to detect from his countenance whether he regarded the event as a serious one, or simply one of those popular commotions which are ever occurring in a large empire.
“I know you are discussing politics, or something akin to them,” said he, laughingly. “Madame de Heidendorf has her 'cabinet countenance' on, and Auersberg is looking as fierce as a field-marshal ought to do when contradicted. Come, General, present me to the Princess. It is an honor I have been long desiring. How tired you must be of all this, Madame!” said he to Kate. “Such wise people as will not talk gossip,—such high-minded souls as never will condescend to say a good thing, or hear one, are insupportable.” And, seating himself beside her, he rattled on about Vienna, its society, and its pleasures, with all the ease and flippancy of a young fashionable of the day, while, in an attitude of deep respect, not unmixed with a dash of impatience, stood the old Count before him.
“What does Auersberg want to tell us?” said the Prince, at last, looking up at the old General's face.
“To say adieu, your Royal Highness.”
“You don't go with the troops, surely?” said the Duke, laughing.
“At the head of my own regiment, your Royal Highness.”
“Ah, by the bye, the Auersbergs are in your brigade. Very proper that. And is this my protégé?” said he, taking Frank's arm, and drawing him forward. “There's your best example, sir. Be only as good a soldier, and the name of Dalton will be a title of nobility amongst us. Good-bye, Lieutenant General, farewell. Give that canaille a lesson quickly, and come back to us as soon as you can.”
Kate rose and followed Frank out of the room. For a few seconds they were closely locked in each other's arms, without speaking. “Oh, Frank dearest! when are we to meet again,—and how?” cried she, passionately.
“In pride and happiness, too, Kate,” said the boy, joyfully. “I have no fears for the future. But what is this, sister dearest,—gold?”
“Do not refuse me, Frank. It is the only happiness left me.”
“But this is the Russian's, Kate.”
“No, believe me, it is not Count Stephen has made me his heir; he has given me all his fortune. Even good luck can come too late!” said she, with a sigh.
“Do not leave this till I write to you, Kate. I will do so very soon,—that is, if I can; but these are anxious times. You know, Kate,”—here the boy whispered, in a voice low and tremulous from agitation,—“You know, Kate, that I only left the ranks a couple of days ago. I can tell then, better than all these great folk, what soldiers think and say; they are not as they used to be. Lead them against the Frenchman, and they will fight as they have ever fought; but if it be to fire on their own townsfolk,—to charge through streets where they lounged along, hand-in-hand with the people, like brothers,—they will not do it.”
“This is very alarming, Frank. Have you told the Count?”
“No; nor would I for worlds. What! betray my comrades, and be called on before a court-martial to say who said this, and what man said t' other?”
“But could you not, at least, give him some warning?”
“And be ordered from his presence for the presumption, or told that I was a rebel at heart, or such tidings had never been uttered by me. The old Feld would as soon believe that this earth was cut adrift to wander at hazard through all space, as that treason should lurk behind an Austrian uniform. It would be an evil hour for him who should dare to tell him so.”
“Oh, Frank, how terrible is all this!”
“And yet do I not despair; nay, Kate, but I am even more hopeful for it; and, as Walstein says, if the Empire halt so long behind the rest of Europe, she must one day or other take a race to come up with it.”
“And is Walstein a——a——” She stopped.
“No; he's very far from a Democrat or a Republican. He 's too well born and too rich and too good-looking to be anything but a Monarchist. Oh, if you but saw him! But, hark! there are the trumpets! Here come the 'Wurtem-burgs;' and there's my charger, Kate. Is he not splendid? A Banat horse, all bone and sinew.”
“How I should like to have been a man and a soldier!” said she, blushing deeply.
“There, that's Walstein,——that's he with the scarlet dolman!” cried Frank. “But he 's coming over,——he sees us. No, he's passing on. Did you see him, Kate?—did you remark him?”
“No, Frank dearest; I see nothing but you, my own fond brother.” And she fell upon his neck, weeping.
“Herr Lieutenant!” said a hussar, with his hand to his cap.
“Yes, I 'm ready,—I 'm coming,” cried Frank. And with one long, last embrace he tore himself away, springing down the stairs in mad haste.
“Madame de Heidendorf is good enough to say she will come and see the troops defile from the Glacis,” said the Archduke to Kate, as, still overwhelmed with sorrow, she stood where Frank had left her. “Perhaps you would do us the honor to come also?”
Kate accepted the invitation at once, and hurried to her room for a bonnet.
“Not that one, Madame la Princesse,” said Nina, eagerly; “the yellow with black lace, rather. The national colors will be a flattery to his Royal Highness.”
“What a coquette you are, Nina!”
“And how irresistible would Madame be were she to condescend to be even a little of one!” said Nina, smiling.
“Perhaps I may yet,” said Kate, half sighing as she spoke; and Nina's dark eyes sparkled as she heard her. “But what do you mean by coquetry, Nina?” asked she, after a pause.
“It may mean much, Madame, or very little. With such as I am it may be a rose-colored ribbon; with Madame la Princesse it may be the smile that wins royalty. Coquetry, after all, is a mere recognition of admiration. An old Spanish dramatist says, 'That a glance from bright eyes is like the hoisting of an ensign to acknowledge a salute.'”
“How you run on, Nina, and how ashamed I feel when I catch myself afterwards thinking over your words!”
Nina laughed merrily at this confession, while she opened the door for Kate to pass out. In a moment after, Kate was seated beside the Archduke, and Madame de Heidendorf followed in another carriage.
The Archduke was neither very good-looking nor agreeable. His manners were not remarkable for any peculiar elegance, nor was there in his air and bearing any of that special charm which very often seems the prerogative of royal personages; and yet it would have been excessively difficult to persuade Kate of all this as she drove along the streets crowded with uncovered heads. The clank of the escort that rode at either side, the quick roll of the drum and the rush out of the guard to salute as he passed, created a sensation of pleasure in her mind like the enjoyment of a delighted child. Oh, if Nelly could but see her now!—if dear old papa were but there to look at her; and Hanserl—little Hans——that loved the Hapsburg House as he loved the Patron Saint of his own village!
It was, indeed, worth something to taste of splendor like this! And now she issued forth into the spacious Glacis, glittering with thousands of bayonets, and trembling under the tramp of the moving squadrons. The whole line saluted as he drove slowly past, band after band taking up the sounds, till the proud hymn of Austria filled the whole air. The soldiers cheered, too, loud and long, for his Imperial Highness was beloved by the army, and, like all his house, was a thorough soldier.
“You have never seen our troops under arms before!” said he, with a proud elation in his look. “They are fine fellows, and faithful as they are brave.” He was about to say more, when the dull roll of a drum was heard along the line, and the deep-voiced command from regiment to regiment ran, “Alle nieder zum Gebet,” and, at the word, every weapon was lowered, and every head drooped forward in prayer. Not a sound—not a whisper—was heard in that mighty host, till, after the expiration of some minutes, the command once more summoned them to arms. Then came the word “March!” and with a cheer that made the very air vibrate, the troops set out for “Italy.”