But where was this fearful manuscript—this dreaded scribbling of the God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million of the best equipped forces of Europe—the paltry paper pellets of a scholar's brain—the memorial to the crowned heads, and people of the several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?
A few brief hours—not two days—before the pseudo Herr Beethoven was honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of all the French—the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized world—he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the most profound confidence he had revealed a slight whisper of his projects—impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious something dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed—he gave them to the charge of a tried friend—and before the Cytherian Cohort were upon the threshold of the author, his memorial was snugly ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's appearance seemed most opportune—for an hour after the visitation of the one, the other was at hand—the documents transferred and on their way to their place of refuge.
But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness—the more the mystery of the manuscripts augmented—the more enthusiastic became his research—the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they served their purpose!
"Bring me the manuscripts"—was the fiat of the Emperor: "I care not how you obtain them—get them, bring them here; and mark you, let neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence—bring the manuscripts!"
Again Leipsic was invested by the Cytherian Cohort of the modern Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ——, who was master of ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who had given the information of the existence of the memorial. This wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was sure of the genuineness of his information—he was much astonished that the Baron had not seized the memorial, as well as the body of the hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.
"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in regard to the Emperor—that man has the manuscripts."
Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack—the pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the Cytherian Cohort plied their cunning and perseverance. That friend of the poor author was found—he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements—blessed his children—kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower—a scholar, a poet—liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!
It was Baron ——'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.
"If he has a particular regard for poetry, he does love the fine arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of fine arts. I'll have him!"
In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for—he could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating, voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell, which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the poet—and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But poetry scorned such dastardy—it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and torture to go—Bertha must fly with him. She had a father—could she leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover—she braved more—released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and gratitude of a dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet pressed her to his heart—fell at her feet, and begged that if his life—property—children—be the sacrifice—but let him know the secret at once—he was her friend—defender—lover—slave. Another sigh, and the spell was broken.