larmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the _reveille_ upon
his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of
an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to
lend enchantment by their rapid quills.

Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found
scattered all over his little sanctum--the spies had him and his
effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the
emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the
dreaded _fiat!_ Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?

They had the _man_, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a
pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the _words_ he had
invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his
clothes--tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few
pieces of statuary, but all in vain--the sought for, dreaded, and hated
documents, for which his _Imperial highness_ would have secretly given
ten--twenty--fifty thousand _louis_--was not to be found! The rage of
the inquisitors was terrific--showing how well they were chosen or paid,
to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all
manner of unpleasant _finales_, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.

"I have written nothing--published nothing, nor do I intend to write or
publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.

"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a
generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to
ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the
case, speak out; place any price upon your work--the price is nothing--I
will pay you at once and destroy your documents."

"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and
liberal, and I regret extremely that it is _not_ in my power to avail
myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything
against the French government--your information to the contrary is false
and wicked."

The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by
threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to
be sealed in torture and death, in the _Bastile_ of the Emperor.

But where was this fearful manuscript--this dreaded scribbling of the
God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene
highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but
where wa