A burst of indignation would have been the reply to these haughty words, had the Archduchess Caroline not felt a hand upon her shoulder, and heard a voice which commanded silence.

The empress, who, at the beginning of this spicy dialogue, had been absent on her survey in a neighboring apartment, had returned, and had heard Josepha's last words. Shocked and grieved, she came forward, and stood in the midst of her daughters.

"Peace!" exclaimed the imperial mother. "I have heard such words of arrogance fall from your lips as must be expiated by humble petition to your Creator. Sinful creatures are we all, whether we be princesses or peasants; and if we dare to lift our poor heads in pride of birth or station, God will surely punish us. With a breath He overturns the sceptres of kings--with a breath He hurls our crowns to earth, until, cowering at His feet, we acknowledge our unworthiness. It becomes a queen to remember that she is a mortal, powerless without the grace of God to do one good action, and wearing under the purple of royalty the tattered raiment of humanity. But it is these absurd vanities that have stirred up the demon of pride in your hearts," continued the empress, giving a disdainful toss to the velvet wedding-dress; "let us leave these wretched gew-gaws and betake ourselves to the purer air of our own rooms."

She waved her hand, and motioning to her daughters, they followed her, silent and ashamed. All had their eyes cast down, and none saw the tears that now fell like rain from Josepha's eyes. She was thoroughly mortified and longed to escape to her room; but as she bent her head to take leave of the empress, the latter motioned her to remain.

"I have as yet a few words to speak with you, my daughter," said Maria Theresa, as she closed the door of her dressing-room. "Your haughty conduct of this day has reminded me that you have a sacred duty to perform. The vanities of the world will have less weight with you when you return from the graves of your ancestors. Go to the imperial vault, and learn from the ashes of the emperors and empresses who sleep there, the nothingness of all worldly splendor. Kneel down beside your dear father's tomb, and pray for humility. Tell him to pray for me, Josepha, for my crown weighs heavily upon my brow, and I fain would be at rest."

Josepha made no answer. She stared at her mother with an expression of horror and incredulity, as though she meant to ask if she had heard her words aright.

"Well, my daughter!" cried Maria Theresa, surprised at Josepha's silence. "Why do you linger? Go--go, child, and recalling the sins of your life, beg pardon of God, and the blessing of your deceased father."

"Give me that blessing yourself, dear mother," faltered the princess, clasping her hands, and looking imploringly at the empress. "My father's spirit is here, it is not in that fearful vault."

The empress started. "I cannot believe," said she, with severity, "that my daughter has cause to tremble before the ashes of her father. The guilty alone fear death; innocence is never afraid!"

"Oh mother, mother! I have no sin upon my soul, and yet I--"

"And yet," echoed the empress as Josepha paused.

"And yet I shiver at the very thought of going thither," said the archduchess. "Yes your majesty, I shiver at the thought of encountering the black coffins and mouldering skeletons of my forefathers. Oh, mother, have pity on my youth and cowardice! Do not force me to that horrid place!"

"I have no right to exempt you from the performance of this sacred duty, Josepha," replied the empress firmly. "It is a time-honored custom of our family, that the princesses of Austria, who marry kings, should take leave of the graves of their ancestors. I cannot release the Queen of Naples from her duty. She is to wear the crown, she must bear the cross."

"But I dread it! I dread it so!" murmured Josepha. "I shudder at the thought of Josepha's corpse. I never loved her, and she died without forgiving me. Oh, do not force me to go alone in the presence of the dead!"

"I command you to go into the vault where repose the holy ashes of your fathers," repeated the empress sternly. "Bend your lofty head, my daughter, and throw yourself with humility upon the graves of your ancestors, there to learn the vanity of all human greatness and human power."

"Mercy, mercy!" cried the terrified girl. "I cannot, I cannot obey your dreadful behest."

"Who dares say 'I cannot,' when duty is in question?" exclaimed the empress. "You are my daughter and my subject still, and I will see whether you intend to defy my authority."

So saying, she rose and rang her little golden bell. "The carriage of the Archduchess Josepha," said she to the page who answered the summons.

"Let a courier be dispatched to the Capuchin fathers to inform them that in a quarter of an hour the princess will visit the imperial vault. Now, princess," continued the empress as the page left the room, "you will not surely have the hardihood to say again, 'I cannot?'"

"No," faltered Josepha, "I will obey. But one thing I must ask. Does your majesty wish to kill me?"

"What do you mean, child?"

"I mean that I will die, if you force me to this vault," replied Josepha, pale as death. "I feel it in the icy chill that seizes my heart even now. I tell you, mother, that I will die, if you send me to the fearful place where Josepha's corpse infects the air with its death-mould. Do you still desire that I shall go?"

"You need not seek to frighten me, Josepha; stratagem will avail you nothing," replied the empress, coldly. "It is not given to mortals to know the hour of their death, and I cannot allow myself to be influenced by such folly. Go, my child, there is nothing to fear; the spirits of your forefathers will shield you from harm," added she kindly.

"I go," replied Josepha; "but my mother has sentenced me to death."

She bent her head and left the room. The empress looked after her daughter as she went, and a sudden pang shot through her heart. She felt as though she could not let her go--she felt as if she must call her back, and pressing her to her heart, release her from the ordeal which tried her young soul so fearfully.

Just then the princess, who had reached the door, turned her large dark eyes with another look of entreaty. This was enough to restore the empress to her self-possession.

She would not call her back. She saw rather than heard the trembling lips that strove to form a last appeal for mercy, and the graceful figure vanished.

When she was out of sight, all the tenderness, all the anxiety of the empress returned. She rushed forward, then suddenly stood still and shaking her head, she murmured, "No! no! It would be unpardonable weakness. I cannot yield. She must go to the grave of her fathers."

CHAPTER XLV.

THE DEPARTURE.

The messenger had returned, the carriage waited, and Josepha had no longer a pretext for delaying her visit to the vault. She must obey her mother's behest--she must perform the horrible pilgrimage! Pale and speechless she suffered her attendants to throw her mantle around her, and then, as if in obedience to some invisible phantom that beckoned her on, she rose from her seat and advanced rigidly to the door. Suddenly she paused, and, turning to her maid of honor, she said, "Be so kind as to call my sister Antoinette, I must bid her farewell."

A few moments elapsed, when the door opened and the Archduchess Marie Antoinette flew into her sister's arms. Josepha pressed her closely to her heart.

"I could not go, my darling" whispered she, "without once more seeing you. Let me look, for the last time, upon that sweet face, and those bright eyes that are lit up with the blue of heaven. Kiss me, dear, and promise not to forget me."

"I can never forget, never cease to love you, sister," replied the child, returning Josepha's caresses. "But why do you say farewell? Why are you crying? Are you going to leave us already for that young king who is to take you away from us? Oh, Josepha, how can you love a man whom you have never seen?"

"I do not love the King of Naples, dear child," said Josepha, sadly.

"Oh, Antoinette! would you could understand my sorrows!"

"Speak, dear sister," replied Antoinette, tenderly. "Am I not twelve years old, and does not the Countess Lerchenfeld tell me, every time I do wrong, that I am no longer a child? Tell me, then, what grieves you?

I will keep your secret, I promise you."

"I weep," said Josepha, "because it is so sad to die before one has known the happiness of living."

"Die!" exclaimed Antoinette, turning pale. "Why do you speak of dying, you who are about to become a queen?"

"I shall never live to be a queen, my sister. The empress has commanded me to visit the imperial vault. I go thither to-day; in a few days I shall be carried thither, never to return. [Footnote: The princess's own words. See "Memoires sur la Vie Privee de Marie Antoinette," par Madame Campan, vol i., p. 38.] Farewell, Antoinette; I leave you to-day, but I leave you for the grave."

"'No, no, no!" screamed the child. "You shall not go. I will throw myself at the feet of the empress, and never rise until she has released you, dear sister."

"Have you yet to learn that the empress never retracts her words? It is useless. I trust go, and my death-warrant is signed."

"It shall not be!" cried Antoinette, beside herself with grief. "Wait dear, Josepha, until I return. I go to obtain your release."

"What can you say to the empress, my poor little one?"

"I will beg for mercy, and if she will not listen, I shall rise and tell her fearlessly, 'Your majesty, Josepha says that you have sentenced her to death. No mortal has power over the life of an imperial princess; God alone has that power. My sister must not go into the vault, for if she does, she dies, and that by your hand.'"

And as the child spoke these words, she threw back her head, and her eyes darted fire. She looked like her mother.

"I see, Antoinette," said Josepha, with a smile, "that you would not submit tamely to death. You have a brave soul, my little sister, and will know how to straggle against misfortune. But I--I have no spirit, I can only suffer and obey; and before I die, I must open my heart to you--you shall receive my last thoughts."

Marie Antoinette looked with tearful eyes at her sister, and sank, white as a lily, on her knees.

"I am ready," said she, folding her hands, while Josepha bent forward, and laid her hand, as with a blessing, upon Antoinette's soft blond hair.