“Speranski.”
The Baron laid down the paper, and gravely paused for the Emperor’s commands. But the Emperor had none to give. He put the simple query—“Is this a burlesque or a reality? Is the writer a charlatan or a conspirator?”
“Evidently something of both, in my conception,” said the Colonel; “the paper is not courtly, but it may be true, nevertheless. The writer is apparently not one of your Majesty’s chamberlains, and yet he is clearly master of some points that mark him for either a very dangerous inmate of the court, or a very useful one.”
Leopold’s anxious gesture bade the Baron proceed. He looked again over the letter, and commented on it as he passed along.
“‘Surrounded by conspirators!’ Possible enough. The Hungarian nobles never knew how to obey. They must be free as the winds, or in fetters. The mild government of Austria is at once too much felt and too little. No government or all tyranny, is the only maxim for the magnates. If not slaves, they will be conspirators.”
“Then this rascal, this Speranski, tells the truth after all?” said the Emperor.
“For the fact of conspiracy I cannot answer yet,” said Von Herbert; “but for the inclination I can, at any hour of the twenty-four.” He proceeded with the letter—“You are honouring the memory of a murderer.”
“An atrocious and palpable calumny!” exclaimed the Emperor. “What! the man who died at my feet? If blood is not to answer for honour and loyalty, where can the proof be given? He had got, besides, everything that he could desire. I had just made him Grand Chamberlain.”
Von Herbert’s grave countenance showed that he was not so perfectly convinced.
“I knew Colvellino,” said he, “and if appearances were not so much in his favour by the manner of his death, I should have thought him one of the last men in your Majesty’s dominions to die for loyalty.”