CHAPTER CLXXII.
MARRIAGE AND SEPARATION.
The eight long, weary days had gone by, the preparations for war were complete, and the emperor was ready to join his army. He had worked day and night, refusing to rest, and answering all remonstrances with a sad smile.
"I was not born a sovereign to devote my life to my own comfort," said he, "but to consecrate it to my empire. When I become too feeble to do my duty, I shall ask for a pension and retire to a convent, like Charles the Fifth. I have no taste, however, for the vocation, sincerely hoping to die as I have lived—an emperor."
"But, sire," said the imperial physician, Von Quarin, "your first duty is to preserve your life for Austria's sake. You have a hot fever, and your eyes and cheeks are hollow."
"Give me a cool drink, doctor, perchance it may refresh my burning heart," said Joseph, with sad irony.
"Cool drinks will do no good unless your majesty consents to take some rest. Sleep is the sovereign remedy of which you are in need, sire. "
"I do not wish to sleep," replied Joseph, gloomily. "Sleep brings happy dreams, and I hate them because of their falsehood! Who would dream of bliss, to wake and find it all a lie!"
"Your valet told me that you did not lie down last night."
"My valet is a chatterbox, and knows not what he says."
"But, your majesty, I know that you have not been to bed."
"Then I slept in an arm-chair! But no, I will not deny it. I sat up all night, Quarin, for I had an important duty to perform before leaving Vienna. I was making my will."
"Your will!" repeated Von Quarin. "Surely your majesty does not fear—"
"No, I fear nothing—certainly not death," returned the emperor. "It must be sweet to die, and part from the disappointments of life; for man either goes to eternal sleep, or wakes forever to eternal happiness! I am not afraid of death, but I must put my house in order, for bullets respect no man, and they have never yet been taught that an emperor is not to be approached without ceremony. One might strike me on the head and send me to my eternal rest. Why, what a doleful face you wear, Quarin! `L'Empereur est mort!—Vive l'Empereur!' I shall bequeath to you a noble young emperor and a beautiful arid charming empress. Is not that better than a surly old fellow like myself? Francis is my pride, and his sweet Elizabeth is like a daughter to me. I must then make my will and provide for my children. Now, doctor, have you forgiven me for sitting up all night?"
"I have nothing to forgive, sire; but I implore you grant me one request."
"You wish to dose me with medicine! It is in your face; you carry an apothecary's shop in your eyes just now."
"No, sire, I wish to ask permission to follow you as your surgeon, that if any thing should happen, I may be there."
"No, Quarin, you must not follow me. I cannot he guilty of the egotism which would monopolize your valuable services. A soldier in the field has no right to be sick, lest he be suspected of cowardice and as for casualties—why, if a ball should strike me, there are plenty of army surgeons who will dress my wounds as they dress those of my men. Remain at home, then, my friend, and do better service by far than you could render me on the battle-field. Farewell now. In two hours I leave, but before that time I have some important business on hand. First, I must go with my will to Prince Kaunitz."
"Did your majesty hear that he had almost struck the Countess Clary, and had banished her from his presence for a week, because she had pronounced the word `testament' in his hearing?"
"Yes, I was told of it, and I shall take good care not to bring down the vials of his wrath upon my head," said Joseph, laughing.
"I shall not pronounce the word 'testament,' I shall speak of my treaty of peace with life, and use every precaution to save his highness's feelings. Strange mystery of life!" continued the emperor, musing, "forever changing shape and hue, like the nimble figures of a kaleidoscope! Well, I must use stratagem in this matter of the 'testament,' for Kaunitz must assume the regency of the empire, and then—then—I must attend a wedding. After that, the battlefield! Adieu, Quarin—if we meet no more on earth, I hope that we shall meet above."
One hour later the emperor returned from the hotel of his prime minister, and entered the imperial chapel. He was in full dress, decked with all his orders. It was only on state occasions that Joseph appeared in his magnificent uniform; he had not worn it since the marriage of his nephew to the Princess Elizabeth of Wurtemberg. But his face was very pale, and when he perceived the bride, he leaned for one moment against a friendly pillar that saved him from reeling. This weakness, however, lasted but a moan, he walked firmly up to the altar, where the bridal party stood awaiting the imperial entrance.
The emperor approached Count Dietrichstein, and greeted him cordially; then turning to Count Kinsky he extended his hand. The bridegroom did not appear to see this, for he cast down his eyes, and made a deep inclinatiou, while Joseph, with a sad smile, withdrew his hand.
He had not dared to look upon the trembling bride, who, seated on a chair, and surrounded by her attendants, had just recovered from a swoon. Her aunt, the Countess Dietrichstein, explained that from Therese's childhood, she never had been able to overcome her terror of lightning; and certainly, if this were so, she had every reason for terror now. The whole sky was darkened by one dense pall of heavy clouds; the stained windows of the chapel were fiery with angry lightning, while fierce above their heads the rolling thunder boomed along the heavens, and then died away in low mutterings that made the earth tremble.
There was no time to await the passing away of the storm, for the guests at that hurried bridal were impatient to depart. The carriages of the emperor and of Count Dietrichstein here without, and neither could tarry long in Vienna. At the altar stood Therese's uncle, Count Leopold von Thun, Bishop of Passau, and around him was grouped a stately array of prelates and priests. Count Dietrichstein whispered in his daughter's ear. She rose from her seat, but her light figure swayed to and fro like a slender tree before the advancing storm, and her lovely face was pale as that of a statue, just leaving the hand of the sculptor. Therese's fear of lightning was no fiction, and she almost sank to the floor as a livid flash glanced across the form of the emperor, and enveloped him in a sheet of living flame. Unheeding it, he moved on toward the unhappy girl, and without a word or a look extended his hand. Therese, trembling, gave him hers, and started when she felt the burning clasp that closed upon her icy fingers. The emperor led her to the altar; behind came the aunt and father of the bride, and between them Count Kinsky, whose jealous eyes watched every movement of those hands which joined together for the space of a moment, were about to be sundered forever.
Nothing, however, was to be seen. The emperor's eyes were fixed upon the altar, those of Therese were cast down. Neither saw the other. Only the burning pressure of one hand and the clammy coldness of the other revealed to both the extent of the sacrifice they were making to the Moloch of the world's opinion.
Now they stood before the altar. The emperor gave the bride into the hands of the bridegroom, and stepped aside to take his place.
The ceremony over, the bishop pronounced the blessing, and all present knelt to receive it. Joseph and Therese were side by side. With a sigh they raised their eyes to heaven, each praying for the other. The emperor's eyes were dim with tears, but he dashed them away, and, rising from his knees, prepared to congratulate the bride.
A peal of thunder drowned the few words which he murmured. But her heart caught the meaning, and she whispered in return
"Yes, in heaven."
Then he dropped her hand, and addressed himself to the bridegroom.
"Count Kinsky," said he, authoritatively, "I wish to speak with you in private."
The count, with a scowl, followed his sovereign to the nave of the chapel, where, at a distance from the bridal party, they were in no danger of being overheard.
"Count," said the emperor, gravely, "you love the Countess Therese?"
Count Kinsky was silent for a while. Then, suddenly, he replied in sharp, cutting accents
"I have loved her."
The emperor repeated his words.
"You have loved her? Do you, then, love her no longer?"
"No. I love her no longer."
"When did you cease to love her?"
"On this day week, your majesty," said the count, defiantly. Joseph would not seem to observe the look which accompanied these words. His voice was unchanged, as he replied
"Count, although you feel resentful toward me, you believe me to be a man of honor, do you not?"
"I do, sire."
"Then I swear to you by all that is sacred to me as man and sovereign, that Therese is as pure in the sight of Heaven as its brightest angel. I swear to you that she is as worthy as ever she was to be loved and esteemed by her husband as his wife and the future mother of his children."
"Your majesty must have formed an intimate acquaintance with the countess, to be able to answer for her purity of heart," returned Kinsky, coldly.
Joseph looked up, pained.
"Ah!" said he, "you are implacable. But you believe me, do you not?"
The count inclined his head.
"I dare not doubt my sovereign's word."
"Then you will love Therese as she deserves to be loved?"
"Love is not to be controlled—not even by an emperor. My love and hate are not to be drawn off and on like a glove!"
"Hate!" cried the emperor, shocked. "Great God! it cannot be possible that you hate the woman whom you have voluntarily chosen, and whom even now, before yonder altar, you have sworn to love. Why, then, did you marry her?"
"Sire, you commanded me to do so just one week ago, and, as a loyal subject, I was compelled to obey. You gave me no alternative, and I married her."
"She will make you happy," replied Joseph, in a faltering voice. "I beseech of you, be gentle with her. Her heart is not at ease, and she needs all your tenderness to restore her to happiness."
Count Kinsky bowed frigidly.
"Will your majesty allow me to ask a favor of you?" said he.
"It will gratify me to do any thing for you," replied Joseph, his eyes lighting up with pleasure.
"Then I ask of your majesty, on your Honor, to answer the question I am about to ask."
"On my honor, count, I will answer it," said Joseph, smiling.
"What did your majesty say to the countess just now, and what was her reply?"
The emperor was thunderstruck—he could not articulate a word.
"Your majesty was so obliging as to promise an answer."
"Yes, count, yes," faltered the emperor. "You shall be satisfied. I said, 'Farewell, Therese, I shall claim thee in heaven.'"
"Your majesty was so condescending as to address my wife in this familiar strain? And her reply was—"
"Only these words, `Yes, in heaven.'"
"I thank your majesty."
They both returned to the company. Joseph cast one last look at Therese, who, pale and rigid, was receiving the congratulations of her unsuspecting friends, and then he addressed her father.
"Well, count, I believe that our furlough has expired, and we must return to our commands. Farewell! and may we both return victorious to Vienna!"
A half an hour later, an imperial caleche conveyed him to the array, and to Field-Marshal Lacy, who had preceded him there by several days.
At the same moment, the travelling-carriage of Count Kinsky drove up to his hotel. Count Dietrichstein, before setting out, had accompanied his daughter to her husband's residence, and had bidden her adieu. Therese was now alone. She shuddered as she heard Count Kinsky's step, and wished from her soul that death would release her from the hateful tie which bound them together.
The door opened, and he appeared. She uttered a faint cry, and pressed her hands to her throbbing heart. Count Kinsky answered the cry with a laugh of scorn.
"Are you afraid?" said he, striding toward her, and contemplating her with a face indicative of smothered passion.
Therese raised her eyes, and looked fearlessly into his eyes
"No, Count Kinsky, I am not afraid, nor would I fear, if you had come to kill me."
The count laughed aloud. "Ah!" cried he, in a harsh, grating voice, "you think that I might do like Prince Bragation and the Duke of Orleans, who strangled their young wives because they suspected them of infidelity! My dear madame, these romantic horrors belong to a bygone century. In this sober and prosaic age, a nobleman avenges his wounded honor, not by murder, but by contempt. I have only intruded myself to ask if you are ready to start?"
"I am ready," replied Therese, wearily.
"Then allow me to accompany you to the carriage."
"My father having given you my hand, I have no right to refuse your escort."
"Before we go, be so condescending as to say which one of my estates you prefer for a residence."
"Select my residence yourself, count; you know that I have never visited your estates."
"Then I choose for you my castle in Hungary, near the Turkish frontier, for there you will have the latest news from the army and its commanders."
Therese made no reply to this sarcasm. She bent her head, and said: "I am ready to submit myself to your decision in all things."
"I hope that the Countess Therese will not long have to live in subjection to her husband," continued he, "and that the journey which I am about to undertake will result happily for us both. You go to Hungary, I go to Rome. I go to implore of the pope a divorce."
"You are going to sue for a divorce?" asked Therese, "Perhaps you can spare yourself the trouble of a journey to Rome, count, for I have already anticipated your wishes. My petition to his holiness went several days ago, and—"
"His majesty, the emperor, was so obliging as to send it by an imperial courier. Is that what you were about to say?"
Therese continued as though she had not heard the interruption "My application went through Monsignore Garampi, the papal nuncio, who promised to use his influence in my behalf."
"What an edifying couple!" exclaimed Kinsky, with another scornful laugh. "How congenial! The same wishes, and, unconsciously, the very same deeds! What a pity we must part so soon, for, I leave you to-day; nor shall I have the pleasure of seeing you again until I bring you a decree of divorce."
"You will be most welcome," returned Therese, calmly. "Now be so good as to escort me to my carriage."
"Pray give me your arm. I have but one more observation to make. I hope that you will now be able to prove substantially to the emperor that it was quite useless for him to shelter himself behind the words, 'I shall claim thee in heaven!' But if I may presume so far, I request that you will defer these demonstrations until I return from Rome with my letters of divorce."
Therese had no strength to retort. She hung down her head, and large scalding tears fell from her eyes. Count Kinsky placed her in the carriage, closed the door, and then returned to his own travelling-chariot, which was a few paces behind. The two equipages thundered down the streets together, but at the gates they parted, the one taking the road for Hungary, the other for Rome. [Footnote: This whole story is Historical. The "heavenly Therese," as she is called by Hormayer, was really married and thus abandoned by her husband, who persisted in believing that the connection between herself and the emperor was not guiltless. But the count met with no success in the matter of the divorce. The pope refused.]