IN WHICH FORTUNE BECOMES CARELESS AND PRODIGALOn the night prior to the arrival of Maurice in Bleiberg, there happened various things of moment.
At midnight the chancellor left the palace, after having witnessed from a window the meeting of the cuirassiers and the students, and sought his bed; but his sleep was burdened with troubled dreams.The clouds, lowering over his administration, thickened and darkened.How many times had he contemplated resigning his office, only to put aside the thought and toil on?
Defeat in the end was to be expected, but still there was ever that star of hope, a possible turn in affairs which would carry him on to victory.Victory is all the sweeter when it seems impossible.Prince Frederick had disappeared, no one knew where, the peasant girl theory could no longer be harbored, and the wedding was but three days hence.The Englishman had not stepped above the horizon, and the telegrams to the four ends of the world returned unanswered.Thus, the chancellor stood alone; the two main props were gone from under.As he tossed on his pillows he pondered over the apparent reticence and indifference of the archbishop.
All was still in the vicinity of the palaces.Sentinels paced noiselessly within the enclosures.In the royal bedchamber the king was resting quietly, and near by, on a lounge, the state physician dozed.The Captain of the household troop of cuirassiers nodded in the ante-room.
Only the archbishop remained awake.He sat in his chamber and wrote.Now and then he would moisten his lips with watered wine.
Sometimes he held the pen in midair, and peered into the shapeless shadows cast by the tapers, his broad forehead shining and deep furrows between his eyes.On, on he wrote.Perhaps the archbishop was composing additional pages to his memoirs, for occasionally his thin lips relaxed into an impenetrable smile.
There was little quiet in the lower town, especially in the locality of the university.Old Stuler's was filled with smoke, students and tumult.Ill feeling ran high.There were many damaged heads, for the cuirassiers had not been niggard with their sabers.
A student walked backward and forward on the stage, waving wildly with his hands to command attention.It was some time before he succeeded.
"Fellow-students, brothers of ******* and comrades," he began.
"All this must come to an end, and that at once.Our personal liberty is endangered.Our rights are being trodden under foot.
Our ancient privileges are being laughed at.It must end." This declaration was greeted by shouts, sundry clattering of pewter lids and noisy rappings of earthenware on the tables."Have we no rights as students? Must we give way to a handful of beggarly mercenaries? Must we submit to the outlawing of our customs and observances? What! We must not parade because the king does not like to be disturbed? And who are the cuirassiers?" Nobody answered.Nobody was expected to answer."They are Frenchmen of hated memory--Swiss, Prussians, with Austrian officers.Are we or are we not an independent state? If independent, shall we stand by and see our personal liberties restricted? No! I say no!
"Let us petition to oust these vampires, who not only rob us of our innocent amusements, but who are fed by our taxes.What right had Austria to dictate our politics? What right had she to disavow the blood and give us these Osians? O, my brothers, where are the days of Albrecht III of glorious memory? He acknowledged our rights.He was our lawful sovereign.He understood and loved us." This burst of sentiment was slightly exaggerative, if the history of that monarch is to be relied on;but the audience was mightily pleased with this recollection.It served to add to their distemper and wrath against the Osian puppet."And where are our own soldiers, the soldiers of the kingdom? Moldering away in the barracks, unnoticed and forgotten.
For the first time in the history of the country foreigners patrol the palaces.Our soldiers are nobodies.They hold no office at court save that of Marshal, and his voice is naught.
Yet the brunt of the soldier's life falls on them.They watch at the frontiers, tireless and vigilant, while the mercenaries riot and play.Brothers, the time has come for us to act.The army is with us, and so are the citizens.Let ours be the glory of touching the match.We are brave and competent.We are drilled.
We lack not courage.Let us secretly arm and watch for the opportunity to strike a blow for our rights.Confusion to the Osians, and may the duchess soon come into her own!"He jumped from the stage, and another took his place; the haranguing went on.The orators were serious and earnest; they believed themselves to be patriots, pure and ******, when in truth they were experiencing the same spirit of revolt as the boy whose mother had whipped him for ****** an unnecessary noise, or stealing into the buttery.
While the excitement was at its height, a man, somewhat older than the majority of the students, entered the bar-room from the street, and lounged heavily against the railing.His clothes were soiled and wrinkled, blue circles shadowed his eyes, which were of dull jet, the corners of his mouth drooped dejectedly, and his oily face, covered with red stubble, gave evidences of a prolonged debauch.
"Wine, Stuler, wine!" he called, laying down a coin, which gleamed dimly yellow in the opalescent light."And none of your devilish vinegars and scums."Stuler pounced on the coin and rubbed it between his palms.
"Gold, Johann, gold?"
"Aye, gold; and the last of a pocketful, curse it! What's this noise about?" with a gesture, toward the hall.
