"No. Regarding the unpardonable conduct of the French ambassador in Vienna." exclaimed the empress. "If the cardinal is so shocked at a slight breach of etiquette, he should be careful to conceal his own deformities under its sheltering veil. Innocence may sin against ceremony; but he, who leads a dissolute and voluptuous life, should make decorum a shield wherewith to cover his own shame!"

"I thank your majesty for this axiom so replete with worldly wisdom. But for whom can it be intended? Certainly not for the dauphiness."

"No; for yourself, prince and cardinal!" cried the empress, beside herself with anger. "For the prelate who, unmindful of his rank and of its obligations, carries on his shameless intrigues even with the ladies of my court. For the ambassador who, leading a life of Oriental magnificence, is treading under foot the honor of his country, by living upon the credulity of his inferiors. All Vienna knows that your household makes unworthy use of your privileges as a foreign minister, by importing goods free of tax, and reselling them here. All Vienna knows that there are more silk stockings sold at the hotel of the French embassy than in all Paris and Lyons together. The world blames me for having revoked the privilege enjoyed by foreign embassies to import their clothing free of duty. It does not know that the abuse of this privilege by yourself has forced me to the measure."

"Your majesty is very kind to take so much trouble to investigate the affairs of my household. You are more au fait to the details than myself. I was not aware, for instance, that silk stockings were sold at the embassy. No more than I was aware that I had had any amours with the ladies of the court. I have a very cold heart, and, perhaps, that is the reason why I have never seen one to whom I would devote a second thought. As regards my manner of living, I consider it appropriate to my rank, titles, and means; and that is all that I feel it necessary to say on the subject."

"You dispose of these charges in a summary manner. To hear you, one would really suppose there was not the slightest ground for reproach in your life," said the empress, satirically.

"That this is quite within the range of possibility, is proved by the case of the dauphiness," replied De Rohan. "If your majesty thinks so little of her breaches of etiquette, it seems to me that mine are of still less consequence. And allow me to say, that the French nation will sooner forgive me a thousand intrigues with the ladies of Vienna, than pass over the smallest deviation from court usages on the part of the dauphiness. Marie Antoinette has defied them more than once, and I fear me, she will bitterly repent her thoughtlessness. Her enemies are watchful and--"

"Oh, I see that they are watchful," exclaimed Maria Theresa, "I see it.

Do not deny it, you are one of those whose evil eyes see evil doings in every impulse of my dear defenceless child's heart. But have a care, sir cardinal, the friendless dauphiness will one day be Queen of France, and she will then have it in her power to bring to justice those who persecute her now!" [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. i., p. 47.]

"I hope that I shall never be accused of such fellowship," said De Rohan, for the first time losing his proud self-possession.

"I, the Empress of Austria, accuse you to-day of it!" cried Maria Theresa, with threatening mien. "Oh, my lord, it does you little honor--you, a royal personage and a prince of the church, to exchange letters with a Du Barry, to whose shameless ears you defame the mother of your future queen!"

"When did I do this? When was I so lost to honor as to speak a disrespectful word of the Empress of Austria?"

"You deny it--do you? Let me tell you that your praise or your blame are all one to me; and if I have granted you this interview, it was to show you how little I am disturbed by your censorious language. I know something of the intriguing at Versailles. I have even heard of the private orgies of the 'Oeil de Boeuf,' where Louis entertains his favorites. And I will tell you what took place at the last one. The Countess du Barry was diverting the company with accounts of the hypocrisy of the Empress of Austria; and to prove it, she drew from her pocket-book a letter, saying: 'Hear what the Cardinal de Rohan says about her.' Now, cardinal, do you still deny that you correspond with her?"

"I do deny it," said the prince, firmly. "I deny that I ever have written her a word."

The empress took from her pocket a paper, and read as follows

"True, I have seen Maria Theresa weeping over the fate of Poland, but this sovereign, who is such an adept in the art of dissimulation, appears to have tears and sighs at her command. In one hand she holds her pocket-handkerchief, and in the other the sword with which she cuts off a third of that unhappy country." [Footnote: "Memoires de Weber concernant Marie Antoinette," vol. viii., p. 803.]

"Now, sir cardinal, upon your sacred honor, did you or did you not write these words?"

The prince turned pale, and grasped the arm of the chair on which he sat.

"Upon your honor and your conscience, before God!" reiterated the empress.

The cardinal raised his eyes slowly, and in a low voice, said "I dare not deny it. I wrote them. In an unlucky hour I wrote them--but not to Du Barry."

"To whom, then?"

"To one who has betrayed me to Du Barry. Far be it for me to name him. I alone will bear the weight of your majesty's displeasure. I alone am the culprit."

"I know of no culprit in the matter," replied Maria Theresa, throwing back her stately head. "I stand before God and before the world, and every man has a right to pass sentence upon my actions--even the Cardinal de Rohan. I merely wish to show him that the dauphiness and her mother both know what to expect of his eminence."

"The dauphiness knows of this letter?" cried De Rohan.

"It is she who sent me this copy."

The prince bowed his head down upon his hands.

"I am lost!" murmured he.

The empress surveyed him with mistrust. Such emotion on the part of such a man astonished her, and she doubted its sincerity.

"Why this comedy, prince?" said she. "I have already told you that I am indifferent to your opinion."

"But the dauphiness never will forgive me," said he, uncovering his face. "My contrition is no comedy: for I look with prophetic eyes into the future--and there I see anguish and tears."

"For whom?" said Maria Theresa, scornfully.

"For me, and perchance for the dauphiness. She considers me her enemy, and will treat me as such. But hatred is a two-edged sword which is as apt to wound the one who holds it as the one for whom it is unsheathed.

Oh, your majesty, warn the dauphiness! She stands upon the brow of a precipice, and if she do not recede, her enemies will thrust her headlong into the abyss below. Marie Antoinette is an angel of innocence and chastity, but the world in which she lives does not understand the language of angels; and the wicked will soil her wings, that her purity may not be a reproach to their own foulness. Warn the dauphiness to beware of her enemies. But, as God hears me, I am not one of them. Marie Antoinette will never believe me, and, therefore, my fate is sealed. I beg leave of your majesty to withdraw."

Without awaiting the answer, the prince bowed and retired.

Maria Theresa looked thoughtfully after him, and long after be had closed the door, she remained standing in the centre of the room, a prey to the anxious misgivings which his visit had kindled in her heart.

"He is right," said she, after a time. "She wanders upon the edge of a precipice, and I must save her. But, oh my God! where shall I find a friend who will love her enough to brave her displeasure, and, in the midst of the flattery which surrounds her, will raise the honest voice of reproof and censure? Ah, she is so unhappy, my little Antoinette, and I have no power to help her! Oh my God! succor my persecuted child!"

CHAPTER LXXXIX.

THE POLES AT VIENNA.

The three powers which had lived so long at variance, had united themselves in one common cause--the pacification of Poland. In vain had Stanislaus refused his assent to their friendly intervention. In vain had he appealed to England and France for help. Neither of these powers was willing, for the sake of unhappy Poland, to become involved in a war with three nations, who were ready to hurl their consolidated strength against any sovereign who would have presumed to dispute their joint action.

In vain King Stanislaus began, by swearing, that sooner than consent to the dismemberment of Poland, he would lose his right hand. The three powers, tired of his impotent struggles, informed him, through their envoys at Warsaw, that there were limits to the moderation which decorum prescribed to governments; that they stood upon these limits, and awaited his speedy acquiescence to the act of partition. [Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions to Modern History," vol. iv., p 516.] The Russian empress added that, if Stanislaus did not call a convention of the Polish Diet to recognize the act, she would devastate his land, so that he would not have a silver spoon left to him. [Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions to Modern History," vol. i., p. 507.]

The unhappy king had no longer the nerve to brave such terrific threats.

He submitted to the will of his tyrants, and came in as a fourth power, eager to obtain as much as he could for his own individual advantage.

The wretched Poles took no notice of the edicts of a king who had been forced upon them by a strange sovereign. Only a few cowards and hirelings obeyed the call for a convention; so that in all, there were only thirty-six members, who, under the surveillance of Austrian and Prussian hussars, signed their names to the act of partition.

The King of Prussia received Pomerelia, and the district of Nantz; Russia took Livonia, and several important waywodeships; and Austria obtained the county of Zips, a portion of Galicia and of Lodomeria, and half of the palatinate of Cracow.

Here and there an isolated voice was raised to protest against the stupendous robbery; but it was lost amidst the clash of arms and the tread of soldiery. Whenever a word was spoken that fretted the sensibilities of Austria or Prussia, Catharine said she was willing to bear all the blame of the thing; and, laughing heartily, she called the protests that were sent on the subject, "moutarde apres diner."

Frederick resorted to self-deception, proclaiming to the world, "that for the first tune the King and the Republic of Poland were established on a firm basis; that they could now apply themselves in peace to the construction of such a government as would tend to preserve the balance of power between proximate nations, and prevent them from clashing."

[Footnote: Raumer, "Contributions," p. 542.]

The Poles, in silent rancor, submitted to their fate, and took the oath of allegiance to their oppressors. New boundary-lines were drawn, and new names assigned to the sundered provinces of the dismembered fatherland. The citadels were given over to their foreign masters, and now the deed was consummated.

Even Maria Theresa rejoiced to know it, and whether to relieve her burdened heart, or to pretend to the world that she approved of the transaction, she ordered a solemn "Te Deum" to be sung in the cathedral of St. Stephen, in commemoration of the event.

The entire court was to assist at this ceremony, after which the empress was to receive the oath exacted from those of her new subjects who desired to retain possession of their property.

The ladies of the court were in the anteroom, awaiting the entrance of the sovereigns. Their handsome, rouged faces were bright with satisfaction; for they had all suffered from the misery which, for a year past, had been endured by their imperial mistress. Now they might look forward to serene skies and a renewal of court festivities, and they congratulated one another in triumph.

But they were cautious not to give too audible expression to their hopes. They whispered their expectations of pleasure, now and then casting stolen glances at a tall figure in black, which, sorrowful and alone, stood tearfully regarding the crowds in the streets who were hurrying to church to celebrate her country's downfall. This was the Countess von Salmour, governess to the Archduchess Mariana. With the other ladies of the palace, she was to accompany the empress to the cathedral; but it was clear to all beholders that to her this was a day of supreme humiliation.