Chapter 2 LEONORE DE SIMONIE.

Napoleon's word was fulfilled! Scarcely two months had passed when he avenged the battle of Aspern on Austria, and twined fresh laurels of victory around his brow. On the 6th of July a conflict occurred which completed Austria's misfortunes and wrested from her all the advantages which the victory of Aspern had scarcely won.

The fight of Wagram gave Austria completely into the hands of the victor, made Napoleon again master of the German empire, compelled the Emperor Francis and his whole family to seek refuge in Hungary, and yielded Vienna and its environs to the conqueror's will. The French imperial army, amid the clash of military music, again entered Vienna, whose inhabitants were forced to bow their heads to necessity in gloomy silence, and submit to receiving and entertaining their victorious foes as guests in their homes. The Emperor Napoleon selected Sch?nbrunn for his residence, and seemed inclined to rest comfortably there after the fresh victory won at Wagram. It had indeed been a victory, but it had cost great and bloody sacrifices. Thrice a hundred thousand men had confronted each other on this memorable 6th of July, 1809; eight hundred cannon had shaken the earth all day incessantly with their terrible thunder, and the course of their balls was marked on both sides with heaps of corpses. Both armies had fought with tremendous fury and animosity, for the Austrians wished to add fresh laurels to the fame just won at Aspern, the French to regain what the days of Esslingen at least rendered doubtful: the infallibility of success, the conviction that victory would ever be associated with their banners.

It was the fury of the conflict which made the victory uncertain. The Austrians showed themselves heroes on the day of Wagram, and for a long time it seemed as if victory would fall to them. But Napoleon, who seemed to be indefatigable and tireless, who all day long did not leave his horse, directing and planning everything himself, perceived in time the danger of his troops and brought speedy and effective reinforcements to the already yielding left wing of the army. But more than twenty thousand men on both sides had fallen victims on this terrible field. Though Napoleon, in his bulletins of victory, exultingly announced to the world another magnificent triumph, France did not join enthusiastically as usual in the rejoicing of the commander-in-chief, for she had been obliged to pay for the new laurels with the corpses of too many thousands of her sons, and the p?ans of victory were drowned by the sighs and lamentations of so many thousand orphaned children, widowed wives, and betrothed maidens.

Napoleon seemed to pay little heed to this; he was enjoying at Sch?nbrunn his victory and his triumph; he gathered his brilliant staff around him, gave superb entertainments, and by parades and reviews lured the Viennese to Sch?nbrunn to witness the brilliant spectacle.

In Vienna, also, the conquerors arranged magnificent festivals, seeking to win the favor of the conquered people by the amusements offered them. The French governor-general of Vienna, Count Andreossy, zealously endeavored to collect around him the remains of the Austrian aristocracy, attract the society of the capital by elegant dinners, balls, and receptions, and since the armistice of Znaim, which occurred soon after the battle of Wagram had put an end to hostilities the Viennese appeared disposed to accept the truce and attend the brilliant entertainments and pleasant amusements offered by Count Andreossy.

The latter was not the only person who opened his drawing-rooms to the Viennese; others soon followed; fashionable Parisian society seemed for the time to have transferred its gay circle from Paris to Vienna; to make in the German imperial capital propaganda for the gay, intellectual, and brilliant circle of the imperial capital of France.

Beautiful women, distinguished by illustrious names, by wealth and charm, suddenly appeared in Vienna, opened their drawing-rooms, and seemed to make it their object to reconcile the hostile elements of French and German society, smooth away contrasts and bring them together.

Among these ladies whom the victory brought to Vienna, the beautiful Madame de Simonie was conspicuous as a brilliant and unusual person. She was young, lovely, endowed with rare intellectual gifts, understood how to do the honors of her drawing-room with the most subtle tact, and was better suited than any one to act as mediator between the Viennese and the French, since she herself belonged to both nations. A German by birth, she had married a Frenchman, lived several years in Paris with her husband, one of the richest bankers in the capital, and now, being widowed, had come to Vienna in order, as she said, to divert the minds of her countrymen from the great grief which the loss of their beloved capital caused them.

Beautiful Leonore de Simonie certainly appeared to be thoroughly in earnest in her purpose to divert their minds from their great grief. Every evening her drawing-rooms were thrown open for the reception of guests; every evening all the generals, French courtiers, and people who belonged to good society in France were present; every evening more and more Germans and Viennese went to Madame de Simonie's, until it seemed as if she afforded Viennese and Parisian society a place of meeting where, forgetting mutual aversion and hatred, they associated in love and harmony.

To be a visitor at Madame de Simonie's therefore soon became a synonym of aristocracy in the new fashionable society of Vienna, which was composed of so many different elements. The foreigners who had come to the Austrian capital, attracted by the renown of the French emperor, or led by selfishness, strove with special earnestness to obtain the entrée to Madame de Simonie's drawing-room, for there they were sure of meeting those whose acquaintance was profitable; by whose meditation they might hope to obtain access to the presence of the French emperor.

The day before Baroness Leonore had given a brilliant entertainment. Until a late hour of the night all the windows of the story which she occupied in one of the palaces on the Graben were brightly lighted; the curious, characterless poor people had gathered in the street to watch the carriages roll up and away, and gaze at the windows whence the candles blazing in the chandeliers shone down upon them, and behind whose panes they saw in swift alternation so many gold-embroidered uniforms, so many showy ball dresses.

As has been said, it was a brilliant entertainment and the Baroness de Simonie might well be content with it; for though the hostess she had also been its queen. Every one, French as well as Austrians, Russians and Italians, Hungarians and Poles, had offered her enthusiastic homage; had expressed in glowing encomiums their greatful thanks for the magnificent festival she had given.

She had been radiant, too, in grace and beauty yesterday evening. The gayest jests were throned upon her scarlet lips, the proudest light had sparkled in her large black eyes, the most radiant roses of youth had bloomed on her delicate cheeks, and the long black tresses which, with wonderful luxuriance, encircled her high white brow, had been to many the Armida nets in which their hearts were prisoned.

But to-day, on the morning after this festival, all that was left of the brilliant queen of the ball was a pale, exhausted young woman, who lay on the divan with a sorrowful expression in her eyes, while ever and anon deep sighs of pain escaped from her breast.

She was in her boudoir, whose equipments displayed French luxury and taste. Everything about her bore the appearance of wealth, happiness, and pleasure, yet her face was sad-yet Leonore de Simonie sighed-yet her lips sometimes murmured words of lamentation, satiety, even bitter suffering. But suddenly a ray of delight flitted over her face; a happy smile brightened her pale features; and this was when, among the many letters the servant had just brought to her, she discovered the little note which she had just read and then, with passionate impetuosity, pressed to her lips.

"He will come, oh, he will come; he will be with me in an hour!" she whispered, again glancing over the note with beaming, happy eyes, and then thrusting it into her bosom.

"This is mine," she said softly; "my property; no one shall dispute it with me, and-"

A tremor ran through every limb, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, then yielded to a deep pallor-she had heard steps approaching in the drawing-room outside, recognized the voice which called her name.

"He is coming!" she murmured. "It is he! My executioner is approaching to begin the tortures of the rack afresh."

At that moment the door which led into the apartment really did open, and a little gentleman, daintily and fashionably attired, entered.

"May I venture to pay my respects to Baroness de Simonie?" he asked, pausing at the door and bowing low, with a smiling face.

Leonore did not answer. She lay motionless on the divan, her beautiful figure outstretched at full length, her face calm and indifferent, her large eyes uplifted with a dreamy expression to the ceiling.

"Madame la Baronne does not seem to have heard me," said the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders. "I ventured to ask the question whether I could pay my respects to you."

Still she did not move, did not turn her eyes toward him, but said in a loud, distinct voice: "You see. We are alone! What is the use of playing this farce?"

"Well," he cried, laughing, "your answer shows that we are really alone and need no mask. Good-day, then, Leonore, or rather good-morning, for, as I see, you are still in your dressing-gown and probably have just risen from your couch."

"It was four o'clock in the morning when the guests departed and I could go to rest," she said, still retaining her recumbent attitude.

"It is true, the entertainment lasted a very long time," he cried, dropping unceremoniously into the armchair which stood beside the divan. "Moreover, it is true that you were an admirable hostess and understood how to do the honors of your house most perfectly. The gentlemen were all completely bewitched by you, and, in my character of your uncle and social guide, I received more clasps of the hand and embraces than ever before in my whole life."

"I can imagine how much it amused you," she said coldly and indifferently.

"Yes," he cried, laughing, "I admit that it amused me, especially when I thought what horror and amazement would fill these haughty aristocrats who yesterday offered me their friendship, if they knew who and what we both really were."

"I wish they did know," she said quietly.

"Heaven forbid!" he cried, starting up. "What put such a mad, preposterous wish into your head?"

"I am bored," she replied. "I am weary of perpetually playing a farce."

"But how are we playing a farce?" he asked in astonishment. "We are trying to make our fortune, or as the French more correctly express it, Nous corrigous notre fortune. Why do you call it playing a farce?"

"Because we pretend to be what we are not, honest aristocrats."

"My dear, you are combining what is rarely put together in life; for you see aristocratic people are rarely honest, and honest folk are seldom aristocrats."

"But we are neither," she said quietly.

"The more renown for us that we appear to be both," he cried, laughing, "and that no one suspects us. My dear Leonore seems to have an attack of melancholy to-day, which I have never witnessed in her before, and which renders me suspicious."

"Suspicious?" she asked, and, for the first time, turned her head slightly, fixing her eyes with a questioning glance upon the old man who sat beside her, nodding and smiling. "Suspicious! I don't know what you mean."

"Well, I really did not intend to say anything definite," he replied, smiling. "I only meant that it is strange to see you suddenly so depressed by your position, which hitherto so greatly amused you. And, because this seemed strange, I sought-searching you know is a trait of human nature-I sought the cause of this new mood."

"Do you think you have found it?" she asked carelessly.

"Perhaps so," he said, smiling. "The most clever and experienced woman may be deluded by love, and suffer her reason to be clouded by sweet, alluring visions."

"You mean that I have done so?"

"Yes, that is what I mean; but it gives me no further anxiety, for I have confidence that your reason will soon conquer your heart. So I do not grudge you the rare satisfaction of enjoying the bliss of being loved. Only I warn you not to take the matter seriously and strive to make the dream a reality."

"And if that should happen, what would you do?"

"I would be inexorable," he answered sternly. "I would tell who and what you are."

She lay motionless; her face still retained its calm, indifferent expression, only for a moment an angry flash darted from her eyes at the old gentleman, but she lowered her lids over them, as if they must not betray the secrets of her soul.

A pause followed, interrupted only by the slow, regular ticking of the great Rococo clock which stood on the marble mantelpiece.

"You will not find it necessary to make such disclosures," Leonore said at last, slowly and wearily, "for you are perfectly right, I shall never grant love the mastery over my future. I know who I am, and that says everything. It will never be requisite to communicate it to others."

"I am sure of it," he said kindly. "And now, my dear Leonore, let us say nothing about our private affairs and pass on to business."

"Yes, let us do so," she answered quietly. "I am waiting for your questions."

"Then first: what did Count Andreossy want, when he begged for an interview so urgently yesterday evening?"

"You were listening?" she asked calmly.

"I heard it. I would gladly have listened to your conversation, but you were malicious enough to grant him the interview in the little corner drawing-room, which has but a single entrance. So it was impossible to enter it unnoticed. Well, what did the count want?"

"He wanted to tell me that he loved me unutterably. He wanted to implore the favor of accepting from him the coupé with the two dapple-grays, in which he drove me yesterday, and which I had praised."

"I hope that you granted the favor."

"I did. The equipage will be sent to-day."

"The dapple-grays are remarkably beautiful," said the old gentleman, rubbing his hands contentedly. "They are worth at least a thousand florins, and the coupé is a model of elegance and beauty. The count received it from Paris a fortnight ago. But how did you repay Andreossy for his regal gift?"

"I told him that I detested him, and that he need never hope for my love."

"Yet you accepted his gift?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes. I accepted it because he entreated it as the first and greatest favor, and because, after the deep sorrow I had caused him, I could not help granting so small a boon."

"Magnificent!" he cried, laughing; "you talk like a reigning queen, accepting gifts from her vassal. Then the count loves you passionately, does he not?"

"He loves nothing except himself and his ambition. He would like to obtain the title of prince from Napoleon."

"And he believes that you could aid him?"

"Indirectly, yes. If I help him to discover an affair which is of great importance to the emperor, and for whose disclosure he could not fail to reward Count Andreossy."

"What kind of an affair?"

"A conspiracy," she said quietly.

"A conspiracy? Against whom?"

"Against the Emperor Napoleon. Andreossy naturally believes me to be an enthusiastic admirer of his emperor, and therefore he imparted to me his fears and conjectures. The point in question is a widespread conspiracy, which is said to exist in the French army and have assistants among the Austrians."

"And you? Do you believe in this conspiracy?"

"I am on the track and perhaps shall soon be able to give the particulars. Only it requires time and great caution and secrecy. Let me say no more now, but I promise that I will be active and watchful. Only I make one condition."

"What is that?"

"If I succeed in discovering this conspiracy, delivering the leaders into your hands, giving the emperor undeniable proofs of the existence of this plot, perhaps even saving his life by the disclosure; if I succeed, as I said, in doing all this, then you will release me and permit me to leave Vienna."

"To go where?"

"Wherever I wish, only alone, only not-"

"Only not with you, you wanted to say," he added, completing the sentence. "My child, you see that I was right in remarking that a change had taken place in you. Formerly you were glad to be with me; you never felt a wish to leave me; formerly it was your ardent desire to occupy a brilliant position in society, to be rich, aristocratic, brilliant, influential; and now, when you have attained all this, now you are still unsatisfied, now you long to resign all this again. But you will reflect, Leonore; you will listen to reason. You will consider what we have suffered from the pettiness, the pitifulness, the arrogance, and the selfishness of men. You will remember how often you vowed, with angry tears, to avenge yourself some day for all that we have suffered. Remember, child, remember! Have you forgotten how we starved and pined, when your mother died, because we were so poor that, in her illness, we could not give her the necessary nursing, could not pay a doctor. Have you forgotten how we both knelt beside her corpse and, with tears of grief and anger, swore to avenge the death of the poor sufferer upon cruel men, base society?"

"I know it, father, yes, I know it," she answered, panting for breath, as she slowly raised her hands and pressed them on her bosom as if to force down the anguish within. "Ah, yes, I shall never forget it! That was the hour when we both sold ourselves to hell."

"Until that time I had been an honest man," he continued. "I had toiled in honest ways to obtain support for my family and myself. I had earnestly endeavored to make my knowledge profitable-humble enough to be willing to teach for the lowest price, to offer my services everywhere. But I could get no employment; people wanted no teacher of music; everywhere I was pitilessly turned away. During the mournful years of war which had closed in upon us, no one wanted to spend his money for a useless art, which perhaps could be used only for dirges. A music-teacher was the most unnecessary and useless of mortals, and the music-teacher felt this, and was ready to become wood-cutter, laborer, street-sweeper, anything to procure food for his sick wife, his only child, to brighten their impoverished, sorrowful lives with a ray of comfort. But it was all in vain; the poor music-teacher found employment nowhere; he might have starved in the midst of the great city, surrounded by wealthy people who, with arrogant bearing, daily drove in brilliant equipages past him and his misery. For his part, he would gladly have died, for what value could his wretched, pitiful life have to him! But he had a daughter, the only creature whom he loved; she was his happiness, his hope, and his joy. His daughter must not starve; must not suffer from the wretched needs of existence; must not crawl in the dust, while others, less beautiful, less good, less gifted, enjoyed life in luxury and splendor. Chance betrayed an important secret to the poor musician. He knew that on the one side a large sum would be paid for his silence, on the other for his speech. He went and sold himself! He went to warn some, to save others if it were possible."

"I know," she said, panting for breath. "You are speaking of the assassination of the ambassadors in Rastadt."

"Yes, Count Lehrbach's valet, in a drunken spree, betrayed his master's secret, so I learned the fine business, and could warn the envoys, could warn Lehrbach to take stronger precautions. It was my first trial, and it was well paid."

"The poor envoys paid for it with their lives," she cried, shuddering.

"That was their own fault. Why didn't they listen to my warning? Why didn't they delay their departure until the following morning? I knew that in the evening a whole detachment of Hussars was stationed on the highway which they must pass. I told them so, and warned them. But they did not believe me; they were reckless enough to set out, and I only succeeded in persuading them to burn their important papers and arm themselves. True, this was useless. They were butchered by the Hussars. One alone, Jean Dubarry, escaped, and I may say that I saved him; for I discovered him in the tree up which he had climbed in his mortal terror, took him to a safe hiding-place, and informed the French authorities in Rastadt. Yes, I saved his life, and therefore I can say that I began my new life with a good deed, and did not entirely sell myself to the devil. Since that time I have led a changeful, stirring existence, often in danger of getting a bullet in my head, or a rope around my neck. But what has given me courage to deride, defy all these perils? The thought of my child, my beautiful, beloved daughter Leonore. I had taken her to Paris, and placed her in one of the most fashionable boarding schools. I wished to have her trained to be an aristocratic lady. I had told her all my plans for the future, and as, like me, she despised the world and human beings, she had approved those plans and solemnly vowed by the memory of her mother, murdered by want, famine, and grief, to avenge herself with me upon society-wrest from it what formerly it had so cruelly denied: wealth, honor, and distinction."

"And I think I have kept my oath," she said earnestly. "I have entered into all your plans; I have accepted the part which you imposed upon me, and for three years have played it with success. Baroness von Vernon was as useful to you in Berlin the last two years, as Baroness de Simonie is now in Vienna. She aided you in all your plans, entered into your designs, pitilessly betrayed all who trusted her and whose secrets she stole by craft, falsehood, and hypocrisy."

"Why did they allow them to be stolen?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Why were they so reckless as to trust a beautiful woman, when experience teaches that all women lie, deceive, and are incapable of keeping a secret? They must bear the consequences of their own folly; we need not reproach ourselves for it."

"I do not reproach myself," she said, "only life bores me. I long for rest, for peace, for solitude around me, that I may not be so unutterably lonely within."

"You wish to conceal the truth from me, Leonore," he cried, shrugging his shoulders, "but I know it. You are in love, my child, and since, as I suppose, this is your first love, it cannot fail to be very passionate and transfigure all humanity with a roseate glow. But wait! that will pass away and you will soon be disenchanted. Hush! do not answer; do not try to contradict me; lovers' reasons have no convincing power. We will leave everything to time and say no more about it. Let us rather talk about the great affair, which you just mentioned, and which certainly might greatly promote our prosperity. Then you really believe in a conspiracy?"

"I do. I know some of the accomplices and shall succeed in discovering others. But I repeat, I will do nothing in regard to this matter until you have granted my condition."

"Are you serious, Leonore?" he asked sorrowfully. "You would leave me, your father? You wish to abandon the task which we imposed upon ourselves? For you know that we had set ourselves the purpose of becoming rich in order to trample under our feet those who scorned and ill-treated us when we were poor. But there is still much to be done ere we attain our goal. It is true that I am well paid; for I am always paid for my life, which is risked in every one of my enterprises. You, too, are well paid; for a magnificently furnished home with a monthly income of six thousand francs is a liberal compensation. But my proud, aristocratic Leonore knows little about economy, and she has arranged her housekeeping on so regal a scale that I shall scarcely succeed in putting a trifle aside for her every month. Besides, consider that the engagement is liable to be cancelled at any moment, and that the least error, the most trivial suspicion of your trustworthiness will suffice to hurl you back into oblivion. No, Leonore, I must not enter into your ecstasy, and I will not. You must remain with me; you must fulfill the vow you made and, holding my hand, pursue the path into which despair and contempt for mankind has led us."

"And if I will not?" she asked, sitting erect, and, for the first time during this whole conversation, permitting the passionate agitation of her soul to be mirrored in her face. "If I will not? If I have resolved to fly from this life of shameful splendor, gilded falsehood, whitewashed crime?"

"Then I shall hold you in it by force," he cried, grasping her arm violently. "And do you know how? I will inform the man you love who you are, and, believe me, he will turn from you with contempt and loathing; he will not follow you into the paradise of solitude into which you would fain escape with him. Listen, Leonore, and weigh my words. We have gone too far for return ever to be possible, therefore we must press forward, steadily forward! Whoever has once sold himself to the devil can never hope to transform himself once more into an angel. Therefore he must be on his guard against nothing so rigidly as repentance, moods of virtuous atonement! You are now suffering from such a mood; it is my duty to cure you of it, and I know the medicine which can heal. So listen. If you do not swear, solemnly, swear, to continue, without wavering or delay, to play the part which you perform with so much talent and success, I will await Baron Kolbielsky here and tell him who you are."

"You will not do that," she shrieked, throwing herself from the divan upon her knees; "no, father, you will not. You will have pity on me, for I will confess it to you: I love him. He is my first, my only love, and for his sake, oh! solely for his sake, I would fain again be good, pure, virtuous. So have pity on me, do not betray me."

"Will you swear to remain Madame de Simonie? To make no change in your present mode of life? To fulfill the duties which you have undertaken, and pursue your task with zeal and cleverness?"

"If I do, will you then promise not to betray me?"

"If you do, I will devote all my craft, cunning, and boldness to the one purpose of making us rich; will put all means in motion, in order, when we are wealthy, to give you the happiness of living with your lover in some secluded corner of the world."

"You do not say that you will not betray me. Swear it."

"I swear that I will betray to no human being who and what you are, as soon as you swear to remain what you are and to fulfill your duties."

"Well then," she groaned faintly, "I swear it: I will remain what I am; I will make no attempt to fly from this life of disgrace and crime."

"My dear Leonore," he said kindly, "now we have taken our mutual vows and understand each other. All differences are settled, and we are once more sure of each other."

"Yes, we are sure of each other," she repeated with a melancholy smile, slowly rising from her knees and drawing her figure proudly to its full height. "I will take up my part again and you shall hear no more complaints from me, father. Have you any further questions to ask?"

"Really," he exclaimed, gazing at her with sparkling eyes, "really, you are an admirable woman. Just now a despairing, penitent Magdalen, and once more a Judith ready for battle or a Delilah who is joyfully ready to cut Samson's locks and deliver him to the Philistines. Tell me, is there a Samson whom you will deliver to us?"

"More than one," she cried; "for I tell you that there is a conspiracy, and I already know three of the members. The object is to discover the others. So give me time and trust me."

"May I speak of it to the emperor now?"

"You may warn him, throw out hints, fix your price. For as you have said, we must be rich to be free and happy. Demand a high price of blood, that we may be rich."

"Blood-money! Then it is a very serious matter. Blood will be shed! Ay, blood will be shed! Heads will fall!" she cried with flashing eyes. "But what do we care for that? We shall be paid for betraying the traitors, and, when we have gained wealth, no one will ask from what bloody source it came. Wealth reconciles, equalizes everything. So we will be rich, rich. And now, uncle, listen. Baroness de Simonie will give another entertainment to-morrow. She will invite all her friends and acquaintances, but especially Count Andreossy's aids, Colonel Mariage, Captain de Guesniard, Lieutenant-colonel Schweitzer, the two Counts von Poldring, and moreover a number of French and Austrian officers, magistrates and ladies. It must be a brilliant fête-all the rooms crowded with people, that some, without attracting attention, may be able to retire and hold a familiar conversation."

"Of course, of course, my beautiful Leonore, and as your uncle and major-domo, I will do everything in my power for your honor! And now, my child, farewell! I will go to Sch?nbrunn, to report to the emperor. Farewell, and be brave, happy, and joyous. Believe me, men do not deserve to be pitied, far less to be loved. The day will soon come when my Leonore will perceive this and strip the enthusiasm of love from her heart as calmly as the glove from her fair hand. Farewell, you lovely Baroness de Simonie!"

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