The Interpreter: A Tale of the War

  CHAPTER XL

  THE WAR-MINISTER AT HOME

  Except at the crisis of great convulsions, when the man with the bayonetis the only individual that clearly knows what he has got to do and howto do it, the soldier is but the puppet upon the stage, while thediplomatist pulls the strings from behind the scenes. Before Sebastopolthe armies of England, France, and Sardinia keep watch and ward, everready for action; at Vienna, the spruce _attache_ deciphers and makeshis _precis_ of those despatches which decide the soldier's fate. Is itto be peace or war? Has Russia entered into a league with the AustrianGovernment, or is the Kaiser, in his youthful enthusiasm, eager for anappeal to arms, and forgetful of his defenceless capital, not thirtyleagues from the Polish frontier, and innocent of a single fortifiedplace between its walls and the enemy, prepared to join heart and handwith France and England against the common foe? These are questionseverybody asks, but nobody seems able to answer. On the Bourse theycause a deal of gambling, and a considerable fluctuation in the value ofthe florin as computed with reference to English gold. Minor capitalistsrise and fall, and Rothschild keeps on adding heap to heap. Money makesmoney, in Austria as in England; nor are those moustached and spectacledmerchants smoking cigars on the Bourse one whit less eager or lessrapacious than our own smooth speculators on the Stock Exchange. Thecrowd is a little more motley, perhaps, and a little more demonstrative,but the object is the same.

  "And what news have you here this morning, my dear sir?" observes aquiet-looking, well-dressed bystander who has just strolled in, to aplethoric individual, with a double chin, a double eye-glass, and a redumbrella, who is making voluminous entries in a huge pocket-book. Theplethoric man bows to the ground, and becomes exceedingly purple in theface.

  "None, honourable sir, none," he replies, with a circular sweep of hishat that touches his toes; "the market is flat, honourable sir, flat,and money, if possible, scarcer than usual."

  Whereat the stout man laughs, but breaks off abruptly, as if muchalarmed at the liberty he has taken. The well-dressed gentleman turnsto some one else with the same inquiry, and, receiving a less cautiousanswer, glances at his fat friend, who pales visibly under his eye.They are all afraid of him here, for he is no other than our oldacquaintance, Monsieur Stein, clean, quiet, and undemonstrative as whenwe saw him last in the drawing-room at Edeldorf. Let us follow him ashe walks out and glides gently along the street in his dark, civilattire, relieved only by a bit of ribbon at the button-hole.

  All great men have their weaknesses. Hercules, resting from hislabours, spun yarns with Omphale; Antony combined fishing andflirtation; Person loved pale ale, and refreshed himself copiouslytherewith; and shall not Monsieur Stein, whose Protean genius can assumethe characters of all these heroes, display his taste for the fine artsin so picturesque a capital as his own native Vienna? He stopsaccordingly at a huge stone basin ornamenting one of its squares, and,producing his note-book, proceeds to sketch with masterly touches themagnificent back and limbs of that bronze Triton preparing to launch hisharpoon into the depths below. Sly Monsieur Stein! is it thus youspread your nets for the captivation of unwary damsels, and are youalways rewarded by so ready a prey as that well-dressed _soubrette_ whois peeping on tiptoe over your shoulder, and expressing her artlessadmiration of your talent in the superlative exclamations of herTeutonic idiom?

  "Pardon me, honourable sir, that I so bold am, as so to overlook yourwondrously-beautiful design, permit me to see it a little nearer. Ithank you, love-worthy sir."

  Monsieur Stein is too thoroughly Austrian not to be the pink ofpoliteness. He doffs his hat, and hands her the note-book with a bow.As she returns it to him an open letter peeps between the leaves, andthey part and march off on their several ways with many expressions ofgratitude and politeness, such as two utter strangers make use of at thetermination of a chance acquaintanceship; yet is the _soubrette_strangely like Jeannette, Princess Vocqsal's _femme de chambre_; and theletter which Monsieur Stein reads so attentively as he paces along thesunny side of the street, is certainly addressed to that lady incharacters bearing a strong resemblance to the handwriting of Victor,Count de Rohan.

  Monsieur Stein pockets the epistle--it might be a receipt for_sour-krout_ for all the effect its perusal has on his impassiblefeatures--and proceeds, still at his equable, leisurely pace, to theresidence of the War-Minister.

  While he mounts the steps to the second floor, on which are situated theapartments of that functionary, and combs out his smooth moustaches,waiting the convenience of the porter who answers the bell, let us takea peep inside.

  The War-Minister is at his wit's end. His morning has been a sadlytroubled one, for he has been auditing accounts, to which pursuit hecherishes a strong disinclination, and he has received a letter from theMinister of the Interior, conveying contradictory orders from theEmperor, of which he cannot make head or tail. Besides this, he hasprivate annoyances of his own. His intendant has failed to send him theusual supplies from his estates in Galicia; he is in debt to his tailorand his coach-maker, but he must have new liveries and an Englishcarriage against the next Court ball; his favourite charger is lame, andhe does not care to trust himself on any of his other horses; and, aboveall, he has sustained an hour's lecture this very morning, when drinkingcoffee in his dressing-gown, from Madame la Baronne, his austere andexcellent spouse, commenting in severe terms on his backslidings andgeneral conduct, the shortcomings of which, as that virtuous dameaffirms, have not failed to elicit the censure of the young Emperorhimself. So the War-Minister has drunk three large tumblers of_schwartz-bier_, and smoked as many cigars stuck up on end in the bowlof a meerschaum pipe, the combined effects of which have failed tosimplify the accounts, or to reconcile the contradictory instructions ofthe Court.

  He is a large, fine-looking man, considerably above six feet in height.His grey-blue uniform is buttoned tightly over a capacious chest,covered with orders, clasps, and medals; his blue eyes and floridcomplexion denote health and good-humour, not out of keeping with thesnowy moustaches and hair of some three-score winters. He lookscompletely puzzled, and is bestowing an uneasy sort of attention, forwhich he feels he must ere long be taken to task, upon a very charmingand well-dressed visitor of the other sex, no less a person, indeed,than that "_odious intrigante_," as Madame la Baronne calls her, thePrincess Vocqsal.

  She is as much at home here in the War-Minister's apartments as in herown drawing-room. She never loses her _aplomb_, or her presence ofmind. If his wife were to walk in this minute she would greet her withamiable cordiality; and, to do Madame la Baronne justice, though sheabuses the Princess in all societies, her greeting would be returnedwith the warmth and kindness universally displayed to each other bywomen who hate to the death. Till she has got her antagonist _down_, thefemale fencer never takes the button off her foil.

  "You are always so amiable and good-humoured, my dear Baron," says thePrincess, throwing back her veil with a turn of her snowy wrist, notlost upon the old soldier, "that you will, I am sure, not keep us insuspense. The Prince wishes his nephew to serve the Emperor; he is but aboy yet. Will he be tall enough for the cavalry? A fine man looks sowell on horseback!"

  The Baron was justly proud of his person. This little compliment andthe glance that accompanied it were not thrown away. He looked pleased,then remembered his wife, and looked sheepish, then smoothed hismoustache, and inquired the age of the candidate.

  "Seventeen next birthday," replied the Princess. "If it were not forthis horrid war we would send him to travel a little. Do you think thewar will last, Monsieur le Baronne?" added she, naively.

  "You must ask the Foreign Minister about that," replied he, completelythrown off his guard by her innocence. "We are only soldiers here, wedo not pull the strings, Madame. We do what we are told, and serve theEmperor and the ladies," he added, with a low bow and a leer.

  "Then will you put him into the Cuirassiers immediately, Monsieur?" sai
dthe Princess, with her sweetest smile; "we wish no time to be lost--now_do_, to please _me_."

  The Baron was rather in a dilemma; like all men in office, he hated tobind himself by a promise, but how to refuse that charming womananything?--at last he stammered out--"Wait a little, Madame, wait, and Iwill do what I can for you; it is impossible just now, for we are goingto reduce the army by sixty thousand men."

  While he spoke, Monsieur Stein was announced, and the Princess rose totake her leave; she had got all she wanted now, and did not care to facea thousand Baronesses. As she went downstairs, she passed MonsieurStein without the slightest mark of recognition, and he, too, lookedadmiringly after her, as if he had never seen her before. The Baron, bythis time pining for more _schwartz-bier_, and another cigar, devoutlyhoped his new visitor, with whose person and profession he was quitefamiliar, would not stay long; and the Princess, as she tripped past the_Huissier_ at the entrance, muttered, "Sixty thousand men--then it_will_ be peace: I thought so all along. My poor Baron! what a soft oldcreature you are! Well, I have tried everything now, and thisspeculating is the strongest excitement of all, even better than makingVictor jealous!" but she sighed as she said it, and ordered her coachmanto drive on at once to her stock-broker.

  The presence of Monsieur Stein did not serve to re-establish either theclear-headedness or the good-humour of the War-Minister. The ostensibleerrand on which he came was merely to obtain some trifling militaryinformation concerning the garrison at Pesth, without which theco-operation of the police would not have been so effectual, in annoyingstill further the already exasperated Hungarians; but in the course ofconversation, Monsieur Stein subjected the Baron to a process familiarlycalled "sucking the brains," with such skill that, ere the door wasclosed on his unwelcome visitor, the soldier felt he had placedhimself--as indeed was intended--completely in the power of thepolice-agent. All his sins of omission and commission, his neglect ofcertain contracts, and his issuing of certain orders; his unpardonablelenity at his last tour of inspection, his unlucky expression ofopinions at direct variance with those of his young Imperialmaster:--all these failures and offences he felt were now registered inletters never to be effaced,--on the records of Monsieur Stein's secretreport; and what was more provoking still, was to think that he had,somehow or another, been insensibly led on to plead guilty tohalf-a-dozen derelictions, which he felt he might as consistently havedenied.

  As he sat bolt upright in his huge leathern chair, and turned once moreto "sublime tobacco" for consolation and refreshment, his thoughtsfloated back to the merry days when he was young and slim, and had nocares beyond his squadron of Uhlans, no thought for the morrow but theparade and the ball. "Ah!" sighed the Baron to himself as he knockedthe ash off his cigar with a ringed fore-finger, "I would I were ayoungling again; the troop-accounts were easily kept, the society of mycomrades was pleasanter than the Court. One never meets with such beernow as we had at Debreczin; and oh! those Hungarian ladies, howdelightful it was to waltz before one grew fat, and flirt before onegrew sage. I might have visited the charming Princess then, and no onewould have found fault with me; no one would have objected--Heigh-ho!there was no Madame la Baronne in those days--_now_ it is so different._Sapperment_! Here she comes!"

  Though the Baron was upwards of six feet, and broad inproportion--though he had distinguished himself more than once beforethe enemy, and was covered with orders of merit and decorations forbravery--nay, though he was the actual head of the six hundred thousandheroes who constituted the Austrian army, he quailed before that littleshrivelled old woman, with her mouth full of black teeth, and her hairdressed _a l'Imperatrice_.

  We profane not the mysteries of Hymen--"Caudle" is a name of noexclusive nationality. We leave the Baron, not without a shudder, tothe salutary discipline of his excellent monitress.