On the pavement was the usual group of curious sightseers, craning their necks to see who was arriving, striving to guess who this or that foreigner might be.
At the sight of the Prince, there was no doubt of his identity. Whenever he appeared in public, the populace of Vienna were delirious with joy. Whatever credit the Czar might take to himself, to them Prince Metternich was the conqueror of Napoleon and the deliverer of Central Europe from the might of the French oppressor.
They cheered him now as he stepped out from his carriage, hats and handkerchiefs waving excitedly.
And, as he smiled his acknowledgments, the women’s eyes grew tender and there was that soft look on their lips that seemed to come to every woman’s mouth, whether she was young or old, when she looked at his face.
The Count’s house was large and magnificently furnished.
The servants in yellow velvet livery trimmed with silver lace led the Prince to the huge reception rooms where a large gathering of people was congregated.
He moved slowly across them in search of his host. It was late and the Count had left his position at the door where he had earlier received the guests.
The Prince made slow progress as there were so many people who wished to speak to him, so many women holding out their hands invitingly and so many representatives of foreign powers hoping for a word or a glance, which would tell them that they and their Masters were for the moment basking in his diplomatic good books.
And then he saw her!
She was walking away from him, moving from one group of people to another and she was so devastatingly beautiful that he felt impelled to watch every movement she made with a breathlessness that was almost painful in its intensity.
She was wearing a grey gown and over it a little emerald green velvet jacket. There were two green tassels fluttering from her hat, which appeared to cry aloud that it came from Paris and had been fashioned to call attention to her calm grey eyes and the clear perfection of her white skin. She was not very tall and her heelless Empire shoes made her appear even smaller than she was.
As if the intensity of his gaze arrested her very movement, she suddenly stopped, hesitated and looked round at him.
They might have been alone at the ends of the Earth.
The people chattering and moving around them ceased to exist as they looked at each other and it seemed to the Prince that her eyes widened ever so slightly before, with a faint smile at the corner of her lips, she turned and moved away.
For a moment he thought that he had lost her and impulsively he stepped forward as if to go after her.
He felt as if he must forget everything – conventions, diplomatic upbringing, even his pose of distraction that was so characteristic of him.
He had a wild desire to call out to her, to tell her that she must not leave him, that he must speak to her now at this very moment or go crazy at the delay.
Then he saw that she had gone in search of Count Karl Zichy. She was pointing out to him who had arrived and the Count’s rather heavy face lit up with pleasure, as he came hurrying across the room towards the Prince.
“Your Excellency, this is a great honour. You are indeed welcome to my house.”
“I have neglected your kind invitations for too long. Count,” the Prince replied. “I must make my excuses for not having come before and also tell you how delighted I am to be here.”
“May I present my daughter-in-law, Julia?”
She was standing there at her father-in-law’s side and now at last the Prince could take her little hand in his and raise it to his lips. He felt his heart turn over at her touch and he knew then that he was in love – overwhelmingly, wildly in love with a woman who attracted him at this very first sight more than any woman had ever done before.
“I want to talk to you alone.”
She looked slightly surprised at the urgency of his tone, but without argument and without question she led the way through the crowded salon to a small anteroom opening out of it.
Like the rest of the house it was decorated in exquisite taste and its soft maroon hangings and quaint old carved mirrors seemed to make a perfect background for her beauty.
“Who are you? Why have I never seen you before?” the Prince questioned.
“My father-in-law has told you who I am,” she replied. “My husband and I have come to Vienna to help him entertain because, as doubtless you know, he is a widower.”
Her voice delighted him. It was low and soft and very sweet. Voices had always had a particular effect upon him and now, when she spoke, he felt as if she calmed and soothed him so that even the violence of his excitement died away into something quieter and deeper.
“Tell me what you think about Vienna.”
He asked the first thing that came into his head because he wanted to watch that lovely serene face with its steady grey eyes.
She told him then how much she was enjoying herself, how she found the Capital gayer than anything she had ever known before. How it had been amusing to take part in the tableaux vivants in which she had appeared in a picture representing Louis XIV kneeling at Madame de la Vallière’s feet and how she had been entranced by a performance of Beethoven’s Fidelio, when, in spite of being stone deaf, he had conducted a new composition himself.
She was looking forward, she continued, to taking part in the Imperial Carousel, where Knights-at-arms were to fight for the favours of twenty-four ladies, who had been given the title of ‘belles d’amour’.
She talked on, describing this function and that and it seemed to the Prince, listening to her, that never before in the whole of his life had he been so at peace with the world.
This was happiness as he had never before known it, to feel charmed and invigorated without recourse to passion, without even a word of tenderness passing between himself and a woman.
After perhaps twenty minutes, the Comtesse rose to her feet.
“Your Excellency will, I know, excuse me,” she said, “but I must attend to my other guests.”
For a moment the Prince stared at her and then he turned and walked from the house as if he was a man in a dream.
He went to no other reception that evening, but drove home and Eleanore found him sitting alone before the fire in his study when she returned an hour later.
“Back already!” she exclaimed as she came into the room and a sudden fear went through her that he might be ill. But, as he turned to look at her, she saw his face and knew that what she had been dreading these past weeks had happened.
Her husband was in love again!
No one should ever guess, she had vowed to herself once, least of all Clement, what agony his affaires brought to her and how each one was like a knife wound in her heart.
She had married him knowing that he did not love her, knowing that their marriage had been arranged by his family because she was one of the richest heiresses in Europe.
The fortunes of the Metternich family had never been at a lower ebb than at the moment when Eleanore Kaunitz had consented to marry young Clement Metternich.
The victorious French Army had overrun the Austrian Netherlands, occupying the left bank of the Rhine where all the Metternich family properties were located. The lands were confiscated in the name of France, leaving Clement’s father Count Georg, in the most desperate circumstances, his diplomatic posts swept away and his ancestral properties lost.
Clement and his parents arrived in Vienna stripped of property and wealth, but their relations began to be busy on their behalf. It was a cousin acting as hostess in the Kaunitz household who introduced Eleanore to Clement.
The Comtesse Eleanore was engaged to a Count Balffy, but, as soon as she saw the young Metternich, she was only too eager to break her engagement and agree to any plans that his relations might make for marriage.
She knew why he was marrying her, knew that her social position and her money mattered far more than anything she might be herself, but she did not care.
She fell
in love with him as so many other women in the past had done and so many more were to do in the future.
She loved him wildly, passionately, crazily, and yet, because she was intelligent, she knew that she was not beautiful enough to hold him by her physical charms.
She schooled herself fiercely with an iron discipline that had something heroic in it, to give him all that he asked of her, but to demand nothing.
Gradually, with a cleverness that he never recognised, she began to make herself indispensable to him. He grew to rely on her, to be grateful that she was always there, to confide in her, not only about his diplomatic difficulties but about his personal ones as well.
Eleanore thought sometimes that she must cry out in sheer agony to hear him speak of his love and desire for other women, yet he never knew that she was anything more than interested in a friendly manner.
“It is so wonderful to be able to tell you these things,” he would say and she would smile understandingly at him and try to help him untangle the intricacies, the plots, the scheming and infatuations that at times made his life utterly chaotic.
Sometimes she could do more for him than just listen. There had been that terrible time in Paris when he had been making love to two women at the same time, two who were widely different both in looks and in character.
One was Caroline Murat, Queen of Naples, strikingly beautiful and as passionately strong-willed as her brother, the Emperor. The other was Laure, Duchesse d’Abrantes, who offered him a tender selfish love and a devotion that was to endure throughout her life.
Caroline’s nature was one of fire, turbulent and possessive. She had originally claimed the greater share of Clement’s affection until gradually Laure d’Abrantes occupied his time and his heart.
He went more frequently to her apartments, he appeared with her at public gatherings until the headstrong Queen of Naples vowed publicly that she would recapture her distinguished lover at any cost.
Caroline had in her service a handsome footman named Prosper, who was a great rake amongst the maids of the household and she decided that he should try his charms with the Duchesse d’Abrantes’ maid, Babette.
Her butler arranged for a meeting between the two servants and Prosper, well supplied with money by his Mistress, in a short time produced tangible results from his courting.
He brought to the Queen of Naples a little bundle of letters that he had bribed Babette to steal from her Mistress’s writing desk.
They were tied together with ribbon and Caroline could hardly wait to be alone before she tore them open to find, as she had expected, that they were the love letters of Clement Metternich.
After reading the letters, Caroline knew that she had in her hands a weapon of the most deadly sort. A weapon, moreover, that, if skilfully used, would vanquish completely her rival for Prince Metternich’s affection.
Sending for her carriage, she set out for the Palace of the Duchesse D’Abrantes. Sweeping in with Imperial haste, which made up in theatrical impetuosity what it lacked in dignity, she told Laure of her discovery and to prove to her that she was in possession of the letters she quoted extracts from them aloud.
“I am going to give these letters to the Press,” she finished. “The publication will bring disgrace not only on you and the Austrian Minister but also upon your husband.”
Laure sprang to her feet.
“Do you really mean,” she asked, “that you would cause a scandal at this moment, when you know as well as I do that Clement is conducting the most delicate negotiations with the Emperor? He would be completely ruined!”
“I do mean it!” Caroline replied fiercely.
“Then you don’t love him,” Laure cried. “You could not love a man and even consider such a vile action. You wish to destroy him out of sheer jealousy. I will give him up.”
“It is too late,” Caroline answered. “I had thought of that originally, but now that I have seen the letters, I want only to make him suffer and you as well.”
Her dark eyes were flashing with fury as she stood there, towering over the tiny Duchesse like some avenging Goddess – but Laure was unafraid.
“You don’t understand the meaning of the word love,” she said quietly. “You are a wicked woman, Caroline Murat. I love Clement with all my heart, but rather than he should be harmed, I will go out of his life and never see him again. I will promise you that on my oath in return for those letters.”
But Caroline’s jealousy had made her impervious to pleading or to any sort of bargain.
“I shall publish them,” she retorted, hating the frail little Duchesse because she knew that Laure could give Clement Metternich something that it was not within her power to give to any man.
She departed in a fury and because the Duchesse d’Abrantes really loved the Austrian Minister she went in despair to call on his wife.
Eleanore listened sympathetically with a calmness that helped the tearful Duchesse over the most difficult parts of her story.
“Thank you for telling me, madame,” she said when the tale was finished. “You are not to worry. I promise you everything will be all right.”
As soon as the Duchesse had left, Eleanore went to visit the Queen of Naples. She saw that Caroline was surprised to see her and she wasted no time in coming to the point.
“You have in your possession certain documents that my husband intended only for the eyes of the Duchesse d’Abrantes,” she said calmly.
Caroline’s lips tightened ominously, but the expression in her eyes was one of astonishment.
“I know all about you both,” Eleanore explained. “There have never been any secrets between my husband and myself. We have a perfect understanding on such matters.”
“You must be a very exceptional person,” Caroline retorted acidly.
“My husband is an exceptional man,” Eleanore replied, “and I cannot allow you to hurt or disturb him, which I understand is what you intend.”
“Who told you all this?” Caroline asked.
“That is immaterial,” Eleanore replied, “but I understand, on good authority, that you intend to make public the letters that he has written to Laure d’Abrantes. I cannot conceive any valid reason which could cause you to take such a decision.”
“I have a reason,” Caroline cried, “and it’s a good one.”
“I doubt that,” Eleanore contradicted. “I am Clement’s wife and, if I do not take offence at his actions, it is not for anyone else to do so. I am quite undisturbed by the revelations that have come into your hands relating to the affection between my husband and the Duchesse d’Abrantes.”
Even while she argued, Eleanore realised that, after the first shock of her visit, Caroline’s resolution to make trouble had not been altered. She was hating Clement at that moment, hating him all the more because she loved him so desperately.
Eleanore knew that nothing she might say would help matters, so she decided upon a desperate course.
She drove to Fontainebleau and asked for an audience with Napoleon. She was shown immediately into the Emperor’s study. He was writing at his massive desk, which was covered with reports, diagrams, military documents and a well-marked map of Russia. He was wearing the dark green uniform of the Old Foot Guards with its white revers.
He rose and greeted Eleanor courteously,
“You have asked to see me, Madame Metternich. What can I do for you?”
Without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment Eleanore told him of the delicate situation that had arisen between the Duchesse d’Abrantes and his sister Caroline Murat.
“Unless something is done to prevent the Queen from carrying out her threats, Your Majesty, there will be a great scandal. It will be a scandal that, as I need not point out to you Sire, will embarrass your own Imperial House just as it will embarrass the best interests of the Austrian Minister!
“My husband’s position in Vienna is serious enough as matters are at the moment. There are many there who blame him for representing t
oo eagerly the interests of France. A scandal involving him now with the Queen of Naples would not only seriously interfere with the work he is doing on behalf of his own Government, but might well react unfavourably to Your Majesty.”
Napoleon listened attentively.
He was shrewd enough to realise that Eleanore was being very clever in the way she was putting the situation to him, but he was obliged to admit that there was a great deal of truth in what she said.
He thanked her for being brave enough to come to him.
“You can rely on me, madame. I will bring this to a finish and at once.”
Eleanore thanked him profusely and made ready to leave. At the door, however, the Emperor detained her for a moment.
“C’est un diable that husband of yours,” he exclaimed with a twinkle in his eyes. “It seems that all the ladies at my Court have lost their heads over him.”
Eleanore gave a little sigh and then she smiled,
“Can you blame them, Sire?” she asked softly. “I cannot see how any woman can resist him.”
It was not the women who could not resist the fascinating Prince de Metternich, whom she minded, it was the fact that he himself found them irresistible.
She had been happy at Vienna since the Congress started. There had been no one in his life. In his conferences with her when the day’s work was done or when they breakfasted together, they talked of his troubles with the Czar and his points of difference with the other Plenipotentiaries.
Yet now the blow had struck. She had not been expecting it and therefore it hurt all the more. He was in love. She knew it by that strange exalted expression on his face, the faint smile at his lips and the look of rapture in his eyes.
He was like a man who had had a sudden vision of the Holy Grail and who could not focus his gaze again quickly upon mundane matters.
The discipline Eleanore had imposed upon herself for so many years made her speak naturally and quietly as if she had noticed nothing. Moving to the Prince’s side, she held out her hands towards the fire, the long thin fingers heavily weighted with rings.
Her hands were Eleanor’s most beautiful feature and she had often wished that Providence had been as kind when it came to her face.
The Enchanted Waltz Page 9
