Chapter 8 PARDON.

Four days had elapsed since the execution at Sch?nbrunn. Baron von Kolbielsky had been forced to attend it and was then conveyed to Vienna to spend dreary, lonely days at the police station in the Krebsgasse.

He had vainly asked at least to be led before his judges to receive his sentence. The jailer, to whom Kolbielsky uttered these requests whenever he entered, always replied merely with a silent shrug of the shoulders, and went away as mute as he had come.

But yesterday, late in the evening, he had entered, accompanied by the Chief Commissioner G?hausen, two magistrates, and a clergyman. With a solemn, immovable official countenance Commissioner G?hausen opened the document which his subordinate handed to him, and, in a loud voice, read its contents. It was a sentence of death. The death-sentence of Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky "on account of sympathy and complicity in a murderous assault upon the sacred life of his annointed imperial ally and friend, Napoleon, emperor of the French."[F] Early the following morning, at dawn, Baron Friedrich Carl Glare von Kolbielsky must be shot at Sch?nbrunn.

Kolbielsky had listened to this death-warrant with immovable composure-no word, no entreaty for pardon escaped his lips. But he requested the priest, who desired to remain to pray with him and receive his confession, to leave him.

"What I have to confess, only God must know," he said, smiling proudly. "In our corrupt times even the secrets of the confessional are no longer sacred, and if I confessed the truth to you, it would mean the betrayal of my friends. God sees my heart; He knows its secrets and will have mercy on me. I wish to be alone, that is the last favor I request."

So he was left alone-alone during this long bitter night before his doom! Yet he was not solitary! His thoughts were with him, and his love-his love for Leonore!

Never had he so ardently worshipped her as on this night of anguish. Never had he recalled with such rapture her beauty, her indescribable charm, as on this night when, with the deepest yearning of his heart, he took leave of her. Ah, how often, how often, carried away by the fervor of his feelings, he had stretched out his arms to the empty air, whispering her dear, beloved name, and not ashamed of the tears which streamed from his eyes. He had sacrificed his life to hate, to his native land, but his last thoughts, his last greetings, might now be given to the woman whom he loved. All his desires turned to her. Oh, to see her once more! What rapture thrilled him at the thought! And he knew that she would come if he sent to her; she would have the daring courage to visit his prison to bring him her last love-greeting. He need only call the jailer and say to him:

"Hasten to Baroness de Simonie in Schottengasse. Tell her that I beg her to come here; tell her that I must die and wish to bid her farewell. She is my betrothed bride; she has a right to take leave of me."

He only needed to say this and his request would have been fulfilled, for the last wishes of the dying and of those condemned to death are sacred, and will never be denied, if it is possible to grant them.

But he had the strength to repress this most sacred, deepest desire of his heart, for such a message would have compromised her. Perhaps she, too, might have been dragged into the investigation, punished as a criminal, though she was innocent.

No, he dared not send to her! His Leonore, the beloved, worshipped idol of his heart, should not suffer a moment's anxiety through him. He loved her so fervently that for her sake he joyfully sacrificed even his longing for her. Let her think of him as one who had vanished! Let her never learn that Baron von Moudenfels, the man who would be shot in a few hours, was the man whom she loved. He would meet death calmly and joyfully, for he would leave her hope! Hope of a meeting-not yonder, but here on earth! She would expect him, she would watch for him daily in love and loyalty, and gradually, gently and easily, she would become accustomed to the thought of seeing him no more. Yet, while doing so, she would not deem him faithless, would not suppose that he had abandoned her, but would know that it was destiny which severed them-that if he did not return to her, he had gone to the place whence there is no return.

"Oh, Leonore, dearly loved one! Never to see you again, never again to hear from your lips those sweet, sacred revelations of love; never again to look into your eyes, those eyes which shine more brightly than all the stars in heaven."

It was already growing lighter. Dawn was approaching. Yonder, in the dark night sky a dull golden streak appeared, the harbinger of day. The sun was rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the condemned man, death.

Still he would die for his native land, for liberty! That was consolation, support. He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty. Fate had not favored him; it shielded the tyrant. So Kolbielsky was dying. Not as a criminal, but as the martyr of a great and noble cause would he front death. And though fate had not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant Napoleon. It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust, trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and the liberties of the nations.

There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy. The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.

No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The bolts on the outer door were already rattling.

"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart, farewell!"

The inner door was opened-Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.

Who was it? Who could it be? Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the strength to ask a question. The young man also leaned for a moment, utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door. Then rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and whispered a few words. The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor, closed the door behind him and locked it.

The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure. What did this mean? He wore Kolbielsky's livery; from his dress he appeared to be his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for years.

Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.

"Who are you?" he asked in a low tone. "Good heavens, who are you?"

The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky. "Who am I? I?" he cried exultingly. "Look at me and say who I am."

A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.

The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young man's face.

Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou bringest love.

"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my-"

He could say no more. Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head upon her shoulder and wept-wept bitterly. But they were tears of delight, of ecstasy-tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express their joy. Tears such as are rarely shed on earth.

Yet no. He would not weep, for tears will dim her image. He wished to see her, imprint her face deep, deep upon his heart that it might still live there while he died.

He took the beautiful, beloved head between his hands and gazed at it with a happy smile.

"Have you risen upon me again, my heavenly stars? Do you shine on me once more, ere I enter eternal night?"

Bending lower he kissed her eyes and again gazed at her, smiling.

"Why do your lips quiver? Why do they utter no word of love? Oh, let me break the seal of silence which closes them."

Bending again to the beloved face which rested in his hands, he kissed the lips.

"Speak, my Leonore, speak! Bid me a last farewell; tell me that you will always love me, that you will never forget me, though I must leave you."

"No, no," she cried exultingly, "no, you will not leave me, you will stay with me."

Releasing herself and gazing at him with her large flashing eyes she repeated:

"You will stay with me."

"Oh, my sweet love, I cannot! They have sentenced me to death. They will soon come to summon me."

"No, no, my dear one, they will not come to lead you to death. They will not kill you. I bring you life! I bring you pardon!"

"Pardon!" he cried, almost shrieked. "Pardon! But from whom?"

"Pardon from your sovereign and master, from the Emperor Francis!"

"God be praised. I can accept it from him," cried Kolbielsky jubilantly. "So I am free? Speak, dearest, I am free?"

She shook her head slowly and sadly. "I have been able only to save you from death," she said mournfully. "I have been able only to obtain your life, but alas! not your liberty."

"Then I remain a prisoner?"

"Yes, a prisoner."

"For how long?"

"For life," she murmured in a voice barely audible.

But Kolbielsky-laughed.

"For life! That means-so long as Napoleon lives and is powerful. But he will die; he will fall, and then my emperor will release me; then I shall belong to life, to the world; then I shall again be yours! I will accept my emperor's pardon, for it is you who bring it to me-you have obtained it. You say so, and I know it. You hastened to Totis, you threw yourself at the emperor's feet, pleaded for mercy, and he could not resist your fiery zeal, your bewitching personality. But how did you know that I was arrested? Who told you that I was Baron von Moudenfels?"

"My uncle," she replied with downcast eyes, "my uncle brought me the tidings; he told me that Napoleon, through Count Bubna, had sent a courier to Totis, to the Emperor Francis, and asked your condemnation. I hastened to Sch?nbrunn; I succeeded in overcoming all obstacles and reaching the emperor. I threw myself at his feet, confessed amid my tears that I loved you, begged for your life. And he granted it; he became your intercessor to the Emperor Francis. He wrote a few lines, which I was to convey to Totis myself. I did so, hastening thither with post-horses. I spoke to the emperor. He was deeply moved, but he had not the courage to take any decisive step; he still dreaded offending his new ally. The Emperor Napoleon begs me to grant Kolbielsky's life, he said. 'I will do so, but can do nothing more for the present. I will grant him life, but I cannot give him liberty. He must be taken to the Hungarian fortress Leopoldstadt. There he must remain so long as he lives.'"

"To Leopoldstadt! In an open grave," cried Kolbielsky gloomily. "Cut off from the world, in joyless solitude, far from you. Oh, death, speedy death would be better and-"

"No," she interrupted, "not far from me! I will remain with you. The emperor at my fervent entreaty, permitted your servant, your faithful servant, to accompany you, share your imprisonment. Now look at me, beloved, look at me. I wear your livery, I am the faithful servant who has the right to go with you. Oh! no, no, we will be parted no longer. I shall stay with you."

Clasping both arms around his neck, she pressed a glowing kiss upon his lips.

But Kolbielsky released himself from the sweet embrace and gently pushed her back. "That can never be-never will I accept such a sacrifice from you. No, you shall not bury your beauty, your youthful bloom in a living tomb. Your tender foot is not made to tread the rough paths of life. The proud Baroness de Simonie, accustomed to the splendor, luxury, and comfort of existence must not drag out her life in unworthy humiliation. I thank you, love, for the sacrifice you wish to make, but nothing will induce me to accept it. Return to the world, my worshipped one! Keep your love, your fidelity! Wait for me. Even though years may pass, the hour of liberty will at last strike and then I will return to you!"

"No, no!" she impetuously exclaimed. "I will not leave you; I will cling to you. You must not repulse me. The emperor has given your servant the right to stay with you. I am your servant. I shall stay!"

"Leonore, I entreat you, do not ask what is impossible. There are sacrifices which a man can never accept from the woman he loves-which humiliate him as they ennoble her. I should blush before your nobility; it would bow me into the dust. Leonore de Simonie must not leave the pure, proud sphere in which she lives; she must remain what she is, the queen of the drawing-room."

"Is this your final answer?" she asked, turning deadly pale.

"My final one."

"Well, then, hear me! You shall know who I am; you shall at least learn that you might accept every sacrifice from me without ever being obliged to blush in my presence. You thrust me from you, that is, you thrust me into death! Yes, I will die, I wish to die, but first you shall hear from my lips the truth, that you may not grieve, may not shed a single tear for me. So hear me, Carl, hear me! I am not what you believe. My foot is not accustomed to the soft paths of life-the world of splendor and honor is not mine. From my earliest childhood I have walked in obscurity and humiliation, in disgrace and shame, a dishonored, ignominious creature."

As if crushed by her own words she sank down at his feet, and raised her clasped hands beseechingly, while her head drooped low on her breast.

Kolbielsky gazed at her with an expression of unspeakable horror, then a smile flitted over his face.

"You are speaking falsely," he cried, "you are speaking falsely out of generosity."

"Oh, would to heaven it were so!" she lamented. "No, believe me, I am telling the truth; I am not what I seem; I am not the Baroness de Simonie."

"Not Baroness de Simonie? Then who are you?" he shrieked frantically.

"I am a paid spy of the Emperor Napoleon, and the spy Schulmeister is my father."

Kolbielsky uttered a cry of fury and raised his clenched fist as if he intended to let it fall upon her head. But he repressed his rage and turned away. Despair and grief now overpowered him. He tottered to a chair and, sinking into it, covered his face and wept aloud.

Leonore was still kneeling, but when she heard him sob she started up, rushed to him, and again throwing herself at his feet, she embraced his knees.

"Do not weep-curse me! Thrust me from you, but do not weep. Alas! yet I have deserved your tears. I am a poor, lost creature. Yes, do not weep. I have suffered much, sinned much, but also atoned heavily. Yes, weep for me! My life lies bare as a torn wreath of roses in the dust-not a blossom remains, nothing save the pathway of thorns, grief, and torture. Yes, weep for me-weep for a lost existence. I was innocent and pure, but I was poor-that was my misfortune. Poverty drove my father to despair, drove us both to disgrace and crime. Oh, God! I was so young, and I wanted to live; I did not wish to die of starvation, and the tempter came to me in my father's form, whispering, 'Have money and you will have honor! Help yourself, for men and women will not aid you. They turn contemptuously away because you are poor. To-morrow, if you are rich, they will pay court to you, honor, and love you. I offer you the means to become rich. Give me your hand, Leonore, despise the people who leave us to die, and follow me.' I gave him my hand, I followed him, I became Napoleon's spy. I had money, I had a name, I saw people throng around me, I learned to despise them, and therefore I could betray them. But, in the midst of my brilliant life, I was unhappy, for the consciousness of my shame constantly haunted me, constantly cast its shadow upon me. And one day, one day I saw and loved you! From that day I was the victim of anguish and despair. On my knees I besought my father to release me, to permit me to escape from the world. He threatened to betray my past, my disgrace to you. And I-oh, God, I loved you-I yielded, I remained. My father vowed that, if I made him rich, he would set me free. I discovered a conspiracy. You were not among the accomplices-I betrayed it. I wanted to serve you by the treachery and I plunged you into ruin."

Tears gushed from her eyes; the sobs so long repressed burst forth and stifled the words on her lips. Kolbielsky no longer wept. He had let his hands fall from his face, and was listening to her in deep thought, in breathless suspense. Now, when she paused sobbing, he stretched out his hand as if he wished to raise Leonore, then he seemed to hesitate and withdrew it.

She did not see it; she did not venture to look at him; she gazed only into her tortured heart. "I have betrayed you," she continued, after an anxious, sorrowful pause. "Oh, when I learned it, a sword pierced my soul and severed it from every joy of life. I knew, in that hour, that I had fallen a prey to despair, but I wished at least to rescue you. I have saved you, that is the sole merit of my life. Napoleon could not resist my despair, my tears, my wrath-he pitied me. He gave your life to me. All the blood-money which I had gained, all the splendor which surrounded me, I flung at my father's feet. I released myself from him forever, and, that my penance might be complete, I called all my servants and revealed my ignominy to them. Then I left the palace where I had lived so long in gilded shame. I took nothing with me. I call nothing mine except these clothes and the name of Leonore. Now you know all, and you will no longer be able to say that I can make a sacrifice for you. Decide whether I must die, or whether you will pardon me. Let me atone; let me live-live as your slave, your thrall. I desire nothing save to see you, serve you, live for you. You need never speak to me, never deem me worthy of a word. I will divine your orders without them. I will sleep on your threshold like a faithful dog, that loves you though you thrust him from you-who caresses the hand that strikes him. I have deserved the blows; I will not murmur, only let me, let me live."

She gazed imploringly at him, with a face beaming with enthusiasm and love.

And he?

A ray of enthusiasm illumined his face also. He bent over the kneeling figure, laid his hands on her shoulders, and gazed into her face while something akin to a divine smile illumined his features.

"When I bade you farewell," he said softly, "I said that if I returned, I would ask you a momentous question. Do you know what it was?"

She shrank and a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, but she did not venture to reply, only gazed breathlessly at him with fixed eyes.

He bent close to her and, smiling, whispered:

"Leonore, will you be my wife?"

With a cry of joy she sprang into his arms, laughing and weeping in her ecstasy.

Kolbielsky pressed her closely to his heart and laid his hand upon her head as if in benediction.

"You have atoned," he said solemnly. "You shall be forgiven, for you have suffered heavily! You have come to me homeless. Henceforth my heart shall be your home. You have cast aside your name-I offer you mine in exchange. Will you be my wife?"

She whispered a low, happy "yes."

An hour later an officer of justice arrived to announce to Kolbielsky his change of sentence to perpetual imprisonment and inform him that the carriage was waiting to convey him to Leopoldstadt.

Kolbielsky now desired to see the priest whose ministration he had formerly refused, and when, half an hour later, he entered the carriage, Leonore was his wife. She accompanied him, disguised as his servant, for the permission to attend the prisoner to Leopoldstadt was given in that name. But the priest promised to go to the emperor himself and obtain for the wife the favor which had been granted to the servant.

He kept his word, and, a few weeks later, the governor of Leopoldstadt received the imperial command to allow the wife of the imprisoned Baron von Kolbielsky to share his captivity.

But Kolbielsky's hope of a speedy release was not to be fulfilled. Napoleon had become the emperor of Austria's son-in-law, and thereby Kolbielsky's position was aggravated. He knew too many of the Emperor Francis' secrets, could betray too much concerning the emperor's hate, and secret intrigues of which Francis himself had been aware. He was dangerous and therefore must be kept in captivity.

In his wrath he wrote vehement, insulting letters to the Emperor Francis, made himself guilty of high-treason. So they were well satisfied to find him worthy of punishment, and render the troublesome fault-finder forever harmless.

So he remained a prisoner long after Napoleon had been overthrown. His wife died many years before him, leaving one daughter, who, when a girl of eighteen, married a distinguished Austrian officer. Her entreaties and her husband's influence finally succeeded in securing Kolbielsky's liberation. In the year 1829 he was permitted to leave Leopoldstadt, to live with his daughter at Ofen, where he died in 1831.

THE END.

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FOOTNOTES:

[A] Napoleon's own words. See Hormayr, "Universal History of Modern Times," part III., p. 136.

[B] Historical. See Hormayr's "Universal History."

[C] Historical. "Anemones from the Diary of an Old Pilgrim," Part II., p. 99.

[D] Historical. See "Anemones," Part II., p. 90.

[E] Historical. See "Anemones," Part II,. p. 90.

[F] "Anemones," Part II., p. 93.