the emperor was the bond that united them; the others had slain in Leopold the philosopher prince, who temporised with France, and who retarded the war.  A female was spoken of who had attracted the notice of the emperor at the last bal masque at the court, and it was said that this stranger, favoured by her disguise, had given him poisoned sweetmeats, without its being possible to discover from whose hand they came.  Others accused the beautiful Florentine, Donna Livia, his mistress, who, according to them, was the fanatical instrument of a few priests.  These anecdotes are the mere chimeras of surprise and sorrow, for the people can never believe that the events which have had so vast an influence over their destiny are merely natural.  But crimes, universally approved, are rare; opinion may desire, but never commits them.  Crime, like ambition or vengeance, is personal:  there was neither ambition nor vengeance around Leopold,—­nought but a few female jealousies; and his attachments were too numerous and too fugitive to kindle in the heart of a mistress that love that arms the hand with poison or poignard.  He loved at the same time Donna Livia, whom he had brought with him from Tuscany, and who was known in Europe as “La belle Florentine,” Prokache, a young Polish girl, the charming countess of Walkenstein, and others of an inferior rank.  The countess of Walkenstein had for some time past been his avowed mistress; he had given her a million (francs) in drafts on the bank of Vienna, and he had even presented her to the empress, who forgave him his weaknesses, on condition that he gave no one his political confidence, which up to that time he had confided to her alone.  He was a devoted admirer of the fair sex, and it would be necessary to refer to the most shameful epochs of Roman history to find any emperor whose life was as scandalous as his own; his cabinet was found after his death to be filled with valuable stuffs, rings, fans, trinkets, and even a quantity of rouge.  These traces of debauch made the empress blush when she visited them with the new emperor.  “My son,” said she, “you have before you the sad proof of your father’s disorderly life, and of my long afflictions:  remember nothing of them except my forgiveness and his virtues.  Imitate his great qualities, but beware lest you fall into the same vices, in order that you may not, in your turn, put to the blush those who scrutinise your life.”

The prince in Leopold was superior to the man:  he had made trial of a philosophical government in Tuscany, and this happy country yet blesses his memory; but his genius was not suited for a more enlarged field.  The struggle, forced on him by the French Revolution, compelled him to seize on the helm in Germany; but he did so without energy.  He opposed the temporising policy of diplomacy to the contagion of new ideas; he was the Fabius of kings.  To afford the Revolution time was to ensure it the victory.  It could be only vanquished by surprise, and stifled in its own