onceived prince-life
was liable to sudden catastrophe. He had lived delicately, but the
bitterness of death was not passed. He left Wertheim, and, travelling
with his children and servants in several carriages and _chaises de
poste_, he journeyed to Vienna, whither the Princess had preceded him.

The Prince travelled alone in a _carrosse-coupe_, or travelling chaise,
at the head of his party. The Barotin and the children followed him in
the second carriage, which was full of toys for their entertainment; now
and again one or the other would be promoted for a stage or two to
their father's carriage, to remain there as long as they entertained
him. After a time they entered upon the flat plains of the Danube and
approached Vienna.

As they crossed the flat waste of water meadows, over the long bridges
of boats, and through the rows of poplars, a drive usually so dreary to
travellers to Vienna, the sun broke out gloriously and the afternoon
became very fine. For many miles before him, over the monotonous waste,
the great tower of St. Stephen's Church had confronted the Prince,
crowned with its gigantic eagle and surrounded by wheeling flocks of
birds--cranes and ravens and daws. Herons and storks rose now and again
from the ditches and pools by the wayside and flitted across the road.
The brilliant light shone upon the mists of the river and upon the
distant crags and woods.

The Prince was alone; the children were tired and restless from the long
journey, and were sent back to the long-suffering Barotin. He lay back
upon the rich furs which filled the carriage, and kept his eyes
listlessly fixed upon the distant tower. The descending sun lighted up
the weather-stains and the vari-coloured mosses that covered its sides;
a rainbow, thrown across the black clouds of the north and east, spanned
the heavens with a lofty arch.

The Prince gazed wearily over the striking scene. Existence appeared to
him, at the moment, extremely complicated.

"It was a terrible mistake," he said, his thoughts still running on the
old disaster; "a terrible mistake! Yet they cannot be right--Isoline and
the people with her--who talk of nothing but sacrifice and self-denial,
and denounce everything by which life is not only made endurable, but by
which, indeed, it is actually maintained in being. What would life be if
every one were as they? 'Ah!' she says, 'there is little chance of that!
So few think of aught save self! So few deny themselve