Black and stormy clouds gather over the land; torches cast a weird light on the sodden road, in front of the two tall, black hearses in which the coffins of the murdered pair jolt towards the Danube. They are travelling to Artstetten, to the vault which the Archduke himself had built. “Rather with Sophie on our estate than without her in the Capuchins’ vault”—so Franz Ferdinand had thought once, he who loved this woman more than the trappings of power.
Suddenly a fearful storm breaks; the horses are unharnessed, and after a time the coffins are carried back into the little waiting-room of Pochlarn station. Once again they stand cold and silent beside the boxes and trunks, as though doomed never to find the rest they sought. Later, when they reach the Danube, heavy waves, lashed by rain, overflow the banks as the coffins are borne at last, on the black ferry-boat, over the river.
Emil Ludwig, July ’14