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“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 was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million of the best equipped forces of Europe–the paltry paper pellets of a scholar’s brain–the memorial to the crowned heads, and people of the several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?

A few brief hours–not two days–before the pseudo Herr Beethoven was honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of all the French–the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized world–he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the most profound confidence he had revealed a slight whisper of his projects–impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious something dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed–he gave them to the charge of a tried friend–and before the Cytherian Cohort were upon the threshold of the author, his memorial was snugly ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend’s appearance seemed most opportune–for an hour after the visitation of the one, the other was at hand–the documents transferred and on their way to their place of refuge.

But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon’s greatness–the more the mystery of the manuscripts augmented–the more enthusiastic became his research–the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they served their purpose!

“Bring me the manuscripts”–was the fiat of the Emperor: “I care not how you obtain them–get them, bring them here; and mark you, let neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence–bring the manuscripts!”

Again Leipsic was invested by the Cytherian Cohort of the modern Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron —-, who was master of ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who had given the information of the existence of the memorial. This wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was sure of the genuineness of his information–he was much astonished that the Baron had not seized the memorial, as well as the body of the hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.