“Oh, Your Majesty,” cried she, when she saw the Queen appear, springing towards her as if to implore her help, “come quickly and hide me in your shadow and tell these ladies and gentlemen that, in approaching me, one does not run the same risk as in sitting beneath the upas tree.”

  “Do you complain of that, ungrateful being that you are!” laughed the Queen. “Why are you so lovely as to make all hearts burst with love and jealousy, insomuch that only I here am sufficiently humble, and so little the coquette as to dare approach my face to yours in kissing you on both cheeks?” And the Queen embraced her, saying in a low tone as she did so:

  “Be charming this evening, it is necessary.” And throwing her arm round her favourite’s neck she drew her on to the sofa, around which each then pressed, the men to pay court to Emma in making court to the Queen, and the women to make court to the Queen in making court to Emma. At this moment Acton entered; the Queen exchanged a look with him intimating that everything was going as she wished.

  She drew Emma into a corner, and, after having spoken to her awhile, in a low voice:

  “Ladies,” said she, “I have just been promised by my good Lady Hamilton that she will give us this evening a sample of all her talents, namely, that she will sing us some ballad of her country or some song of ‘antiquity; that she will play a scene from Shakespeare for us, and that she will dance her shawl dance, which she has as yet danced for and before me only.”

  There was but one cry of curiosity and delight in the room.

  “But,” said Emma, “Your Majesty knows that it is on one condition....”

  “What?” enquired the ladies, still more eager in their desires than the men.

  “What?” repeated the men after them.

  “The Queen,” said Emma, “has just remarked to me that by a singular chance, except for her own, the baptismal name of the eight ladies who are assembled in this room begin with an E.”

  “True!” said the ladies, looking at one another.

  “Well, if I do what I am asked, I desire that what J ask should be done.”

  “You will agree that that is right, ladies,” said the Queen.

  “Well, what do you want? Let us see, tell us, milady!” cried several voices.

  “I want to preserve a precious remembrance of this evening,” said Emma. “Her Majesty is going to write her name, CAROLINA, on a scrap of paper, and each letter of this august and cherished name will be the initial of a line of verse written by each of us, I the first, to the greatest glory of her Majesty; each of us will sign her line, good or bad, and I expect that, mine assisting, there will be more bad than good ones; then, as a remembrance of this evening, on which I shall have had the honour of being in the company of the handsomest Queen in the world, and the most noble ladies of Naples and Sicily, I shall take this precious and poetic autograph for my album.”

  “Granted,” said the Queen, “and heartily.”

  And the Queen, going to a table, wrote across a scrap of paper the name CAROLINA.

  “But your Majesty,” cried the ladies summoned to make verse instantly, “but we are not poets.”

  “You will invoke Apollo,” said the Queen, “and you will become poets.”

  There was no possibility of withdrawing; besides, Emma, going to the table as she had said she would, wrote opposite the letter C the first line of the acrostic, and signed “Emma Hamilton.” The other ladies resigned themselves, and one after the other approached the table, took the pen, wrote a line and signed their name.

  When the last, the Marchioness of San Clemente, had signed hers, the Queen eagerly took the paper. The joint action of the eight muses had given the following result.

  The Queen read aloud:

  C’est par trop abuser de la grandeur suprême, Emma Hamilton.

  > Ayant le sceptre en main, au front le diadème, Emilia Cariati.

  Réunissant déjà de si riches tributs, Eleanora san Marco.

  O Reine! de vouloir qu’en un instant Phébus, Elizabetta Termoli.

  Lorsque le mont Vésuve est si loin du Parnasse, Elisa Tursi.

  Initie au bel art de Pétrarque et du Tasse, Eufrasia d’Altavilla.

  Nos cœurs, qui n’ont jamais pour vous jusqu’ à ce jour, Eugenia de Policastro.

  > Aspiré qu ‘a lutter de respect et d’amour, Elena San Clemente.

  “See then,” said the Queen, whilst the men were all amazement at the merits of the acrostic, and the ladies were surprised themselves at having done so well, “see then, General Acton, what a charming handwriting the Marchioness of San Clemente has.”

  General Acton took it, and withdrawing from the group to a candle as if he wished to re-read the acrostic, compared the writing in the letter with that of the eighth line. Then smilingly handing back the precious and terrible autograph to Caroline:

  “Charming indeed,” said he, The double praise of the Queen and Captain General Acton with regard to the Handwriting of the Marchioness San Clemente passed without anyone, even the object, attaching to it its real importance.

  The Queen took possession of the acrostic, promising to return it to Emma next day, and, as the first ice was broken, everyone mingled in that charming confusion which the Queen was an adept at creating in the circle of her intimates by the art she possessed of making every embarrassment forgotten while banishing all etiquette.

  Conversation became general; lips no longer let fall but let fly words; laughter displayed white teeth; men and women mingled; each to his taste sought wit or beauty; and in the midst of this gentle murmur, which seemed like the warbling of birds, one felt the atmosphere become warm and impregnated with youth, of which the breath and perfume made a kind of philtre, invisible, unseizable, intoxicating, composed of love, desires and voluptuousness.

  In this kind of gathering Caroline used to forget that she was Queen; her eyes glowed, her nostrils dilated, her bosom swelled. She came to Emma, and placing her hand on her shoulder said: “Well, fair lady, have you forgotten that you do not belong to yourself this evening? You have promised us miracles, and we are in a hurry to applaud you.”

  Emma seemed as if in a languorous swoon; her head drooped now on this shoulder now on that, her half-closed eyes were hidden beneath her long eyelashes; her dazzling teeth visible through opened crimson lips; her black curls strikingly contrasted with the dead white of her bosom.

  She felt rather than saw the Queen’s hand on her shoulder; and quivered from head to foot.

  “What do you wish of me, dear Queen?” said she, with a supremely graceful motion of the head. “I am ready to obey you. Would you like the balcony scene? But there should be two for that, and I have no Romeo.”

  “No, no,” said the Queen laughing, “no love scene; you would make them all mad. No, something to terrify them. Juliet’s monologue, that is all I permit you this evening.”

  “So be it; give me a large white shawl, my Queen, and clear a space for me.”

  The Queen took from a sofa a large shawl of white China crape, which no doubt she had thrown down there purposely, gave it to Emma, and with a gesture in which she became Queen again, ordered everyone to stand aside.

  In a moment Emma found herself alone in the midst of the room.

  “Madame, I must ask you to be so kind as to explain the circumstances. That will distract attention from me for a moment, besides, and I need this little trick to produce my effect.”

  “You are all familiar with the play of Romeo and Juliet, are you not?” said the Queen. “It is desired to marry Juliet to Count Paris, whom she does not love, loving as she does poor banished Romeo. Friar Laurence, who has wedded her to her lover, has given her a sleeping draught to make her appear as if dead; she is to be laid in the tomb of the Capulets, and there Laurence will come to find her and to take her to Mantuap-where Romeo is awaiting her. Her mother and her nurse have just left her room, leaving her alone, after having announced that at daybreak next day she will marry Count Paris.”

  Scarcely had the Queen finished this narrative, which had drawn all eyes to her, than a cry of pain made them turn again to Emma Hamilton. She had needed but a moment or two so to drape herself in the immense shawl as to leave nothing showing of her own dress; her head was hidden in her hands, which she let glide slowly down, gradually disclosing her pale face stamped with profound grief, and in which it was impossible to discover a trace of that sweet languor we have tried to depict; it displayed, on the contrary, a paroxysm of anguish; terror reaching its zenith.

  She turned slowly about her as if to follow with her gaze her mother and her nurse, even out of sight, and in a voice whose every vibration pierced hearts of the hearers, her arm extended as if to bid the world an eternal adieu:

  “Farewell!” said she.

  “God knows when we shall meet again.

  “I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, “That almost freezes up the heat of life:

  “I’ll call them back again to comfort me —

  “Nurse! — What should she do here?

  “My dismal scene I needs must act alone.”

  And so continued to the end of the scene, when, carrying the phial containing the drug to her lips, she cried: “Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.” And, making a gesture of swallowing it, she sank down and fell stretched on the carpet, where she remained lifeless and motionless.

  So great was the illusion that, forgetting it was merely dramatic representation, Nelson, the rough sailor, more acquainted with ocean storms than with the deceits of art, uttered a cry, sprang towards Emma, and with his only arm raised her from the ground as if she had been a child.

  He had his reward: on opening her eyes, Emma’s first smile was for him. Only then did he comprehend his mistake and withdraw in confusion to a corner of the room.

  To him succeeded the Queen, and everyone flocked round the sham Juliet.

  Never did the magic of art, even if urged to this point, go beyond it. Although expressed in a foreign tongue, not a feeling agitating the heart of Juliet had escaped the spectators; she had rendered each with such magic and such truth that she had made them pass into the souls of the listeners for whom, thanks to her, fiction had become reality.

  The emotions raised by this scene of which the noble company, completely a stranger to the mysteries of the poetry of the North, had not even any idea, were some time in calming down. To the silence of stupefaction succeeded enthusiastic applause; then the praise and charming flatteries so gently caressing to the artist’s self-love.

  Emma, born to shine on the scene of letters, but urged by her irresistible fortune into the scene of politics, on each occasion became once again the ardent and passionate actress.

  But at this moment, when all eyes were on Emma, the Queen felt a hand grasp her wrist; she turned; it was Acton.

  “Come,” said he, “without a moment’s delay; God is doing for us more than we could have hoped.”

  “Ladies,” said she, “in my absence, for I am obliged to absent myself for some minutes; in my absence, Emma is Queen; I leave you, in place of power, genius and beauty.”

  Then, in Nelson’s ear:

  “Tell her to dance for you the shawl dance that she dances for me. She will do it.” And she followed Acton, leaving Emma intoxicated with pride, and Nelson madly in love.

  CHAPTER XI.

  FERRARI, THE KING’S COURIER.

  THE Queen followed Acton; she understood that something serious indeed must have occurred if he permitted himself to call her so imperatively from the room. She was about to question him in the corridor, but he merely answered:

  “Do me the favour to come quickly, madame! We have not a moment to lose; you will know all in a few minutes.”

  Acton took a little back staircase leading to the castle dispensary. It was here that the King’s doctors and surgeons, Vairo, Troja, Cottugno had a fairly complete assortment of remedies for giving first aid to the sick or wounded in the illnesses or accidents whatever they might be for which they were summoned.

  The Queen guessed whither Acton was leading her.

  “Has anything happened to one of my children?” she asked.

  “No, madame, re-assure yourself,” said Acton; “and if we have any experiment to make, we shall be able to perform it at least in anima vili.” He opened the door; the Queen entered and cast a rapid glance round the room.

  A man in a swoon was lying upon a bed.

  She drew near with more curiosity than fear.

  “Ferrari!” said she. Then, turning towards Acton, with dilated eye. “Is he dead?” she asked, in a tone as much as to say: “Have you killed him?”

  “No, madame,” replied Acton; “he is only in a faint.”

  The Queen looked at him, and her look demanded an explanation.

  “It is the simplest thing in the world,” said he. “As we agreed, I sent my secretary to tell the master of the post at Capua that he must inform the courier Ferrari, as he passed, that the King was awaiting him at Caserta; he did so; Ferrari took only the time to change horses; but, in coming in under the great gate of the castle he turned too short, embarrassed by our guests’ carriages; his horse fell, the rider’s head hit against a stone, he was picked up unconscious, and I have had him brought here, saying it was useless to go in search of a doctor, and that I would attend to him myself.”

  “Well, then,” said the Queen, grasping Acton’s idea, “there is no longer need to buy his silence; we need not fear his speaking, and provided that he remains unconscious long enough for us to open the letter, read it and seal it up again, that is all we require; only, you understand, Acton, he must not wake up while we are doing it.”

  “I have taken my precautions. I have given this unfortunate twenty drops of laudanum, and to make sure I will give him ten more.” And pouring ten drops of a yellowish liquid into a little spoon, he inserted it into the throat of the unconscious man.

  “I don’t see any courier’s bag,” said the Queen.

  “Ah, the King doesn’t take ordinary precautions with his confidential man; and he carries simple despatches in a leather pocket made inside his jacket.”

  “Let us see,” said the Queen without the slightest hesitation.

  Acton undid the jacket, ransacked the leather pocket and drew out a letter sealed with the private seal of the Emperor of Austria, namely, as Acton had forseen, with a head of Marcus-Aurelius.

  The Queen wished to take the letter from him to unseal it.

  “Oh! no, no, not thus,” said he, and he held it at a certain height above a taper, the seal gradually melted, one of the four corners of the envelope rose. The Queen passed a hand over her brow. “What are we about to read?” she said. Acton drew the letter from its envelope, and bowing presented it to her. The Queen opened it and read aloud: —

  “Castle of Schœnbrûnn, 14 28th September, 1798. “Most excellent brother, cousin and uncle, ally and confederate, “I reply to Your Majesty in my own hand, as you have written to me in yours.

  “My advice, in agreement with that of the Aulic council, is that we should begin a campaign against France only when we have collected all our chances of success, and one of the chances on which I am permitted to rely is the co-operation of 40,000 Russians led by Field-Marshal Souvarov, to whom I intend giving the chief command of our armies; but these 40,000 men will not be here till the end of March. Temporise then, my most excellent brother, cousin and uncle, retard by every possible means the opening of hostilities; I do not think France is any more desirous of going to war than we are; profit by her peaceful intentions; give some good or bad reason for what has passed, and, in April, we will open a campaign with all our forces.

  “With this, and this letter having no other aim, I beg, my very dear brother, cousin and uncle, ally and confederate, that God may have you in his holy and worthy keeping.

  “FRANCOIS.’’

  “This is something quite unexpected,” said the Queen.

  “Not to me, madame,” replied Acton. “I never believed that his Majesty the Emperor would begin a campaign before next spring.”

  “What are we to do?”

  “I await your Majesty’s orders.”

  “You are aware of my reasons for wanting an immediate war, General?”

  “Does your Majesty take the responsibility?”

  “What responsibility do you want me to take with such a letter?”

  “The Emperor’s letter will be whatever we desire.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Paper is a passive agent, and one makes it say what one likes. The whole question lies in the calculation: Is it better to make war immediately or later, to attack or to wait to be attacked.”

  “There’s no need to discuss that, it seems to me; we know the state in which the French army is, it cannot resist us to-day; if we give it time to organise, it is we who will be unable to resist.”

  “And, with that letter, you think it impossible for the King to open a campaign?”

  “He! He will be only too pleased to find a pretext for not budging from Naples.”

  “Then, madame, I know only one course,” said Acton in resolute tones.

  “What?”

  “To make the letter say the contrary of what it does say.”

  The Queen grasped Acton’s arm.

  “Is it possible?” asked she, fixedly regarding him.

  “Nothing is easier.”

  “Explain to me.... Wait a moment!”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear that man sigh?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “He raises himself.”

  “To fall back again; look.”

  And, in truth, the unfortunate Ferrari fell back on his bed moaning.

  “You were saying?” continued the Queen.

  “That the paper is thick, colourless, written on a single page.”

  “Well?”

  “So one can, by using an acid, remove the writing, leaving only the three last lines and his signature in the Emperor’s hand, and substitute the advice to open hostilities without delay for that of waiting till April.”