Three weeks had elapsed since the memorable sitting at which Maria
Theresa had declared in favor of a new line of policy. Three long weeks
had gone by, and still no message came for Kaunitz; and still
Bartenstein and Uhlefeld held the reins of power.
With hasty steps, Kaunitz paced the floor of his study. Gone was all coldness and impassibility from his face. His eyes glowed with restless fire, and his features twitched nervously.
His secretary, who sat before the writing-table, had been gazing anxiously at the count for sometime. He shook his head gloomily, as he contemplated the strange sight of Kaunitz, agitated and disturbed.
Kaunitz caught the eye of his confidant, and coming hastily toward the table, he stood for a few moments without speaking a word. Suddenly he burst into a loud, harsh laugh—a laugh so bitter, so sardonic, that Baron Binder turned pale as he heard the sound.
"Why are you so pale, Binder?" asked Kaunitz, still laughing. "Why do you start as if you had received an electric shock?"
"Your laughing is like an electric shock to my heart," replied the baron. "Its sound was enough to make a man pale. Why, for ten years I have lived under your roof, and never have I heard you laugh before."
"Perhaps you are right, Binder, for in sooth my laugh echoes gloomily within the walls of my own heart. But I could not help it—you had such a droll, censorious expression on your face."
"No wonder," returned Baron Binder. "It vexes me to see a statesman so irresolute and unmanned."
"Statesman!" exclaimed Kaunitz, bitterly. "Who knows whether my role of statesman is not played out already?"
He resumed his walk in moody silence, while Binder followed him with his eyes. Suddenly Kaunitz stopped again before the table. "Baron," said he, "you have known me intimately for ten years. In all my embassies you have been with me as attache. Since we have lived together, have you ever known me to be faint-hearted?"