It was the eve of a wonderful moment in Europe—it was the little lull that preceded the most terrific storm that ever overturned thrones and scattered dynasties—as these illustrious personages were met together, to interchange compliments, to lisp soft phrases of flattery, and discuss the high claims of some aspirant for a ribbon or a cross, a “Red Eagle,” or a “Black” one. A few, more far-sighted than the rest, saw the cloud, not bigger than a man's hand, in the distance. A few could hear the low rumblings that denoted the brooding hurricane; but even they thought “the thing would last their time.” And thus, with many a pleasant jest, they chatted over the events of the hour, praised the wisdom of kings, and laughed to scorn those vulgar teachers whose democratic theories were just beginning to be whispered about. Some were young, buoyant, and hopeful, ready to shed the last drop for the principles they professed; others were old gray-headed men, tried servants of Monarchy for half a century. But all were like-minded, and self-gratulation and compliment was the order of the day. Leaving them thus to such pleasant converse, where the clank of jewelled swords or the tap of a diamond snuff-box formed the meet accompaniments of the themes, we turn once more to her in whose fate we are more deeply interested.
Twice had she rung the bell to ask if the messenger had not returned. At last he came; but there was “no answer to her note.” Her impatience became extreme. She ordered the servant who carried the note to appear before her; questioned him closely as to whether he had taken it, and the reply he had received. A soldier had said, “Gut!” and shut the door. Poor Kate! It was her first lesson in “soldier laconics,” and to say truly, she did not take it well. The “Princesse de Midchekoff” might have been treated with more deference. She was passing a mirror as the thought struck her, and her mien and air gave support to the belief; nor could she restrain the sense of admiration, half tinged with shame, her own beauty evoked.
“There is a soldier here, Madame,” said a servant, “who has a letter he will not deliver except into your own hands.”
“Admit him—at once,” said she, impatiently; and as she spoke the soldier stepped forward, and drawing himself up, carried his hand to the salute, while, presenting a letter, he said, “From the Field-Marshal von Auersberg.”
Kate scarcely looked at the bearer, but hastily tore open the square-shaped epistle.
“You need not wait,” said she to the servant; and then turning to the letter, read,——
“'Madame la Princesse and beloved Niece,—It was with—to me
of late years——a rare satisfaction that I read the not the
less affectionate that they were polite lines you vouchsafed
to inscribe to me, an old and useless but not forgotten
servant of an Imperial master. Immediately on perusing the
aforesaid so-called note, I despatched my adjutant to the
head-quarters of the Franz Carl, to obtain——no service
rules to the contrary forbidding, nor any default's punition
in any wise preventing——a day's furlough for the Cadet von
Dalton—”
“What regiment is yours?” said Kate, hastily, to the soldier.
“Franz Carl Infanterie, Highness,” said the youth, respectfully, using the title he had heard assumed by the servant.
“Do you know many of your comrades,——among the cadets, I mean?”