Her destiny required her to do nothing more. She did not pretend to claim a knowledge of the world of philosophy. She felt the warmth of the secret revelations which have been granted to poetic souls when in love. In this disposition she looked for several days over books, without reading anything. She could give an account of nothing; more than one page, however, in which she had read but one line, was bedewed with tears, and she often hurried to her piano, toimprovisesongs, the tenderness and grandeur of which were the burning and spontaneous expression of her generous emotion.
A whole week rolled over her, in a solitude which Matteus' association did not trouble. She had resolved not to address the least question to him, and perhaps he had been scolded for his indiscretion, for he was now as silent as he had been prolix heretofore. The red-throat came to see Consuelo every day, but without Gottlieb. It seemed this tiny being (Consuelo was half inclined to think it enchanted) came at regular hours to amuse her, and returned punctually at noon to its other friend. In fact, there was nothing wonderful about it. Animals at liberty have certain customs, and make a regular disposition of their time, with more foresight and intelligence than domestic animals. One day Consuelo observed that it appeared constrained and impatient, and that it did not fly so gracefully as usual. Instead of perching on her fingers, it thought of nothing but pecking with its nails and bill at an irritating impediment. Consuelo approached him, and saw a black thread hanging from its wing. The poor creature had been taken in a snare, she thought, and had escaped only by its address, bearing off with it a portion of its chain. She had no difficulty in removing it, yet had not a little in taking off a piece of silken thread, adroitly fastened on the back, and which held under the left wing a silken bag of some very thin material. In this bag she found a letter, written in almost imperceptible characters, on such thin paper that she feared to break it by a breath. At the first glance she saw it was a message from the dear unknown. It contained but these few words:—
"A great task has been confided to me, in the hope that the pleasure of doing it well would calm the uneasiness of my passion. Nothing, not even the exercise of my charity, can distract the soul of which you are the mistress. I accomplished my task in less time than you would think possible. I am back again, and love you more than ever. Our sky is growing brighter. I do not know what has passed between you andthem, but they seem more favorable, and my love is no longer treated as a crime, but merely as a mischance—a misfortune. Ah! they do not know me! They know not that I cannot be unhappy with your love. But you do. Tell it to the red-throat of Spandau. It is the same. I brought it here in my bosom. May he repay me for all my trouble by bringing me a message from you. Gottlieb will deliver it faithfully to me, without looking at it."
Mysterious and romantic circumstances enflame the fire of love. Consuelo experienced the most violent temptation to reply. The fear of displeasing the Invisibles, the scruple of not violating her promises, had but little influence on her, we must own. When she thought that she might be discovered, and cause a new exile of the Chevalier, she had courage enough to resist. She released the red-throat, without one word in reply, but not without tears at the sorrow and disappointment her lover would experience at her having acted with such severity.
She sought to resume her studies, but neither study nor music appeared to dissipate the agitation which had boiled in her bosom, since she knew the Chevalier was near her. She could not refrain from hoping that he would disobey the Invisibles, and that she would see him some evening glide beneath the flowery bushes of the garden. She was unwilling to encourage him, however, to show himself. All the evening she was shut up, looking, with a beating heart, through the window, yet determined not to reply to his call. She did not see him appear, and exhibited as much grief and surprise as if she had relied on a temerity which she would have blamed, and which would have awakened all her terrors. All the little mysterious dramas of young and burning love were formed in her bosom in the course of a few hours. It was a new phase of emotions, unknown hitherto to her. She had often, at evening, waited for Anzoleto on the canals of Venice, or on the terraces of theCorte Minelli; yet when she did so, she thought over her morning's lesson, and repeated the rosary-prayers, to while away the time, without fear, trembling, or sorrow. This childish love was so closely united to friendship, that it bore no relation to what she now experienced for Leverani. On the next day she waited anxiously for the red-throat, which did not come. Had he been seizeden routeby some stern Argus? Might not the fatigue of the silken girdle and heavy burden have prevented him from coming? His instinct, however, would teach him that Consuelo had on the evening before released him, and he would perhaps return to her, to receive the same service.
Consuelo wept all day long. She, who had no tears for great misfortunes, who had not shed one while she was a prisoner at Spandau, felt crushed and burned up by the sufferings of her love, and sought in vain for the strength which had sustained her in all the other evils of life.
One evening she forced herself to play on the piano, and while doing so, two black figures appeared at the door of the music room, without her having heard them ascend. She could not repress a cry of terror at the apparition of these spectres, but one of them, in a voice gentler than before, said, "Follow us." She got up in silence to obey them. They gave her a silken bandage, saying, "Cover your eyes, and swear that you will do so honestly. Swear also that if this bandage fall, or become deranged, that you will close your eyes until we bid you open them."
Consuelo said—"I swear."
"Your oath is accepted," said the guide. Consuelo was led, as before, into the cavern. Presently she was told to halt, and an unknown voice said:
"Remove the bandage yourself. Henceforth none will watch you, and you will have no guardian but your own word."
Consuelo found herself in an arched room, lighted by a single lamp hanging from the roof. A single judge, in a red cloak and livid mask, sat in an old arm-chair, by the side of a table. He was bowed with age, and a few grey locks escaped from his hood. His voice was broken and trembling. The aspect of age changed into respectful deference the fear Consuelo could not repress when she met one of the Invisibles.
"Listen to me," said he, as he bade her seat herself on a stool at some distance. "You are now before your confessor. I am the oldest of the council, and the quiet of my whole life has made my mind as chaste as that of the purest of Catholic priests. I do not lie. If you wish to reject me, however, you are at liberty to do so."
"I receive you," said Consuelo, "with this understanding, that my confession does not implicate that of another!"
"Vain scruple," said the old man. "A scholar does not reveal to a schoolmaster the fault of his comrade, yet a son hurries to tell a father where a brother has erred, because he is aware that the parent represses and corrects the fault, without chastising it. Such, at least, should be the law of every family which seeks to practise this idea. Have you any confidence?"
This question, which sounded not a little arbitrary in the mouth of a stranger, was uttered with such gentleness, and in such a sympathetic tone, that Consuelo, led astray, and moved, replied unhesitatingly, "I have entire confidence."
"Listen then," said the old man. "When you first appeared before us, you made use of the following expression, which we have remembered and weighed:—'It is a strange moral torture for a woman to confess herself before eight men.' Your modesty has been considered. You will confess yourself to me alone, and I will not betray your confidence. I have received full power, (and I am the highest of the council,) to direct you in an affair of a delicate nature, and which has not an indirect connection with your initiation. Will you answer me freely? Will you open your whole heart to me?"
"I will."
"I will not inquire into the past. You have been told that the past does not belong to us. But you have been warned to purify your soul from the moment which marked the commencement of your adoption. You must think of the difficulties and the consequences of this adoption. You are not accountable to me alone, but other things are at stake. Reply then."
"I am ready."
"One of my children loves you. During the last eight days, have you acknowledged or repelled his love?"
"I have repelled it in every manner."
"I know it. The least of your actions are known to us. I ask the secrets of your heart, not of your conduct."
Consuelo felt her cheeks glow and was silent.
"You think my question cruel. You must reply to it, notwithstanding. I wish to guess at nothing. I must know and record."
"Well, I do love," said Consuelo, yielding to the necessity of truth. Scarcely had she pronounced this word, than she shed tears. She had abandoned the virginity of her soul.
"Why do you weep?" said the confessor mildly. "Is it from shame or from repentance?"
"I do not know. I think it is not from repentance. I love too well for that."
"Whom do you love?"
"You know—not I."
"But if I do not? His name?"
"Leverani."
"That is the name of no one. It is common to all our members who choose to bear it. It is a false name, such as most of our brethren assume in their travels."
"I know him by no other name, and did not learn it from him."
"His age?"
"I did not ask him."
"His face?"
"I never saw it."
"How would you know him?"
"It seems to me I would recognise him by touching his hand."
"If your fate were based on such a test, and you failed?"
"It would be horrible."
"Shudder then at your imprudence, unfortunate child; you love madly."
"I know it."
"Do you not combat it in your heart?"
"I cannot."
"Wish you to do so?"
"I do not even wish to."
"Your heart is then free from all other affections?"
"Entirely."
"Are you a widow?"
"I think I am."
"And were you not?"
"I would combat my love, and Iwoulddo my duty."
"With sorrow? with grief?"
"With despair, perhaps; yet I would do it."
"You did not then love your husband."
"I loved him as a brother. I did all I could to love him."
"And could not?"
"Now that I know what love is, I say No."
"Do not then suffer from remorse. Love cannot be forced. Do you think you love this Leverani? seriously? religiously? ardently?"
"So do I feel in my heart. Unless indeed he be unworthy."
"He is not unworthy."
"Indeed, my father!" said Consuelo, carried away by gratitude, and seeking to kneel before the old man.
"He is as worthy of intense love as Albert himself. You must, however, renounce him."
"It is I then who am unworthy?" said Consuelo sadly.
"You will be worthy, but you are not free. Albert of Rudolstadt is not dead."
"My God! pardon me," murmured Consuelo, falling on her knees, and hiding her face in her hands.
The confessor and penitent maintained a long and painful silence. Ere long Consuelo, remembering what Supperville had said, was struck with horror. This old man, whose appearance had filled her with veneration, could he lend himself to such an infernal plot? Did he betray the sensibility of the unfortunate Consuelo, and cast her into the arms of a base impostor? She looked up, pale with terror, with dry eyes and quivering lips. She attempted to pierce the impenetrable and unimpressionable mask, which, it may be, concealed the criminal's pallor, or the hellish sneer of a villain.
"Albert lives?" said she. "Are you very sure? Do you know there is a man like him, whom even I fancied was him?"
"I know all that absurd story," said the old man. "I know all Supperville's mad fancies, and all he has done to exculpate himself from the blunder he committed in suffering a man who was merely in a state of lethargy, to be buried. Two words will destroy all that scaffolding of madness. The first is, that Supperville was declared unworthy of the secondary degrees of the secret societies, the supreme direction of which is in our hands, and his wounded vanity and diseased curiosity could not bear this degradation. The second is, that Count Albert never thought or intended to resume his place and rank in the world. He could not do so without giving rise to scandalous discussions in relation to his identity, which he could not bear. He perhaps did not understand his true duties in thus deciding. He would have been able to make a better use of his fortune than his heirs. He thus deprived himself of one way of doing good, which Providence had granted him. Enough, though, remain. The voice of love was more powerful in inducing him to do this, than conscience. He remembered that you did not love him, for the very reason that he was rich and noble. He wished to abandon forever both name and rank. He did so, and we consented. He will never pretend to be your husband, for such he became from your pity and compassion. He will have courage to renounce you. We have no greater power over him you call Leverani, and over yourself, than persuasion. If you wish to fly together, we cannot help it. We have neither dungeons nor constraint—we neither have any corporeal penalties, though a faithful servitor, somewhat credulous, may have told you so; but we hate all means of tyranny: your lot is in your hands. Think again, poor Consuelo, and may heaven direct you."
Consuelo had listened to this discourse in a profound state of stupor. When the old man was done, she arose and said with energy:
"I need no thought. My choice is made. Albert is here! Lead me to him."
"Albert is not here. He could not be a witness of this strife. He is even ignorant of what you now undergo."
"Dear Albert," said Consuelo lifting her hands to heaven, "I will conquer." Then kneeling before the old man, she said, "Father, absolve me, and aid me never to see this Leverani again! I do not wish; I will not love hm!"
The old man placed his trembling hands above Consuelo's head. When he removed them she could not arise. She had repressed her tears in her bosom; and, crushed by a contest beyond her power, she was forced to use the confessor's arm as she left the oratory.
At noon on the next day the red-throat came to tap with its bill and claws at Consuelo's window. Just as she was about to open it, she observed a black thread crossed over its yellow breast, and an involuntary effort induced her to place her hand on the sash. She withdrew it at once, however.
"Away," said she, "messenger of misfortune! away, poor innocent bearer of letters which are guilty and criminal! I shall not, perhaps, have courage to reply to a last farewell. Perhaps I should not suffer him to know that I regret and mourn for him."
She took refuge in the music-room, to escape from the tempting bird, which, used to a better reception hovered about, and angrily tapped at the window-sill. She sat at her piano to drown the cries and reproaches of her favorite, who had followed her to the window of the room, and she felt something like the anguish of a mother when she will not hear the cries and complaints of a penitent child. It was not because of the red-throat that Consuelo now suffered. The note under the bird's wing spoke most appealingly. This was the voice Which, to our romantic recluse, seemed to lament at not being heard.
She did not yield. It is, however, in the nature of love to become angry and return to the assault, becoming more imperious and triumphant after every victory. Without metaphor may it be said, that to resist is to supply him with new arms. About three o'clock Matteus came in with a basket of flowers, which he brought his prisoner every day, (he loved her kind and gentle deportment), and as usual she unbound them to arrange them herself in the beautiful vase on theconsole.This was one of her prison pleasures. On this occasion, however, she was less awake to it, and attended to it mechanically, as if to kill time. In untying a bundle of narcissi which was in the centre of the package of perfumes, a letter without any direction fell out. In vain did she seek to persuade herself that it came from the tribunal of the Invisibles. Would Matteus in such a case have been its bearer? Unfortunately Matteus was not by to give any explanations. It was necessary to ring for him. Five minutes would be necessary ere he could return, and it might be ten. Consuelo had exhibited too much courage towards the red-throat to be able to resist the bouquet. The letter was being read when Matteus returned. Consuelo had reached the postscript:—
"Do not question Matteus; for he is ignorant of the disobedience I make him commit."
Matteus was merely asked to wind up the clock, which had stopped.
The Chevalier's letter was more passionate, more impetuous, than the others. In its delirium it was even imperious. We will not copy it. Love-letters are powerless, except to the persons to whom they are directed. In themselves they are all alike. All who are in love find, in the object of their attraction, an irresistible power and incomparable novelty. No one fancies he is loved as another is, or in the same manner. All fancy themselves most loved of any who live. Where this strange blindness, this proud fascination, does not exist, there is no passion. Passion had seized on the calm, quiet, and noble mind of Consuelo.
The Chevalier's note disturbed all her ideas. He implored an interview, and urged the necessity of using the few moments which remained. He feigned to believe Consuelo had loved Albert, and that she yet loved him. He pretended to be willing to submit to her decree, and in the interim asked only a moment of pity, a tear of regret. This "lastappearance" of a greatartisteis always followed by many others.
Consuelo, though sad, was yet devoured by a secret joy, burning and involuntary, at the idea of an interview. She felt her forehead blush and her bosom palpitate, for she knew that in spite of herself she had committed adultery. She saw that her resolution and her will did not protect her from an inconceivable influence, and that if the Chevalier resolved to break his vow, by speaking to her and showing his features, as he seemed determined to do, she would not be able to prevent this violation of the laws of the invisible tribunal. She had but one refuge—to implore the tribunal's aid. But could she accuse and betray Leverani? Would the worthy old man who had revealed Albert's existence, and paternally received her confessions on the previous evening, receive this also under the seal of confession. He would pity the Chevalier's madness, and would condemn him only in the silence of his heart. Consuelo wrote that she wished to see him at nine in the evening of that day, and enjoined him on his honor, his repose and peace of mind to meet her. This was the hour at which the stranger said he would come. But by whom could she send this letter? Matteus would not go a foot out of the enclosure before midnight; such were his orders, he had been severely reprimanded for not having always punctually obeyed his orders in relation to the prisoner. Henceforth he would be inflexible.
The hour drew near, and Consuelo, though she sought in every way to avoid the fatal test, had not thought of any means of resisting it. Compulsory female virtue will ever be but a mere name unless half of the stain of its violation rests on the man! Every plan of defence becomes a mere subterfuge: every immolation of personal happiness fails, when opposed to the fear of reducing the object of affection to despair. Consuelo resolved on one resource, a suggestion of the heroism and weakness which divided her heart. She began to look for the mysterious opening of the cavern which was in the house, resolving to hurry through it, and at any risk to present herself before the Invisibles. She had fancied, gratuitously enough, that their place of meeting was accessible when she had once discovered the mouth of the passage, and that they met every night at the same place. She was not aware that on that day they were all absent, and that Leverani alone had returned, after having pretended to accompany them on their mysterious excursion.
All her efforts to discover the secret door or trap were useless. She had not now as at Spandau, thesang froid, the perseverance necessary to discover the smallest fissure in the wall, the least protruding stone. Her hands trembled as she examined the paneling and hangings, and her sight became disturbed. Every moment she seemed to hear the sound of the step of the Chevalier on the garden walks, or on the marble portico.
All at once, she fancied she heard them beneath her, as if they ascended some secret stairway or approached to some invisible door, or as if, like familiar spirits, they were about to rush through the wall before her. She let her light fall, and fled into the garden. The rivulet caused her to cease her flight. She listened to footsteps, which she fancied she heard behind her. She then became somewhat amazed, and got into the boat which the gardener had for bringing sand and turf from the forest. Consuelo fancied that when she loosed it she would gain the opposite bank; but the current was very rapid, and passed out of the enclosure through a grated arch. Borne off by the current, the boat in a few moments would have knocked against the grating. To avoid the shock, she put forth her hands—for a native of Venice and a child of its people could not be at any difficulty in relation to such a manœuvre. By a strange chance, however, the grating yielded to her hands, and swang open, in obedience to the impulse the boat received from the current. "Alas!" thought Consuelo, "they never shut this passage, perhaps: I am but a prisoner on parole, and yet I fly and violate my word. I do so, however, only to seek protection from my hosts, not to abandon and betray them!"
She sprang on shore at a turn of the current whither the boat had been driven, and rushed into a thick hedge. Consuelo could not proceed rapidly through the undergrowth. The alley wound about, and the fugitive every moment knocked against the trees, and frequently fell on the turf. Yet she felt a return of hope to her soul: she thought it impossible for Leverani to discover her.
After having wandered a long time at hazard, she found herself at the foot of a hill, strewn with rocks, the varied outline of which was painted on a grey and clouded sky. A storm-wind of some power, had arisen, and the rain began to fall. Consuelo, not daring to return, for fear that Leverani had followed, and might look for her on the banks of the stream, ventured on the rude hill-side path. She thought that when she had reached the top, she would discover the lights of the castle and ascertain her position. When she had arrived, however, in the darkness, the lightning, which began to illumine the heavens, showed her the ruin of a vast building, which seemed the imposing and melancholy monument of another age.
The rain forced Consuelo to seek shelter, and with difficulty she found it. The towers were roofless, and flocks of ger-falcons and tiercelets were terrified at her approach, and uttered a sharp and acute cry, which sounded like that of the spirits of evil inhabiting some old ruin.
Amid the stones and ivy, Consuelo went through the chapel, which, by the lightning, exhibited the outline of its dislocated mouldings, and went into the court-yard which was overgrown with short smooth grass. She avoided by chance a deep well, the presence of which on the surface was only indicated by superb capillary plants, and a rose-tree which were in undisturbed possession of the interior. The mass of ruined buildings around this courtyard presented the strangest aspect. At every flash, the eye could scarcely take in these pale and downcast spectres; all these incoherent forms of ruin, vast stacks of chimneys, the summits of which were blackened by fires long extinct forever, and springing from amid walls which were bare and terribly high; broken stairways, showing their helices, into the void, as if to enable witches to go to their aerial dance; whole trees installed and in possession of rooms, on the walls of which frescoes were yet visible; stone benches in the deep window recesses, desertedness within and without these mysterious retreats, refuges of lovers in times of peace and the sentinels' station during war; finally, loop-holes, festooned with coquettish garlands, isolated spires, piercing the skies like obelisks, and doors completely crushed by the falling ruins. It was a fearful and poetical spot, and Consuelo felt herself under the influence of a kind of terror, as if her presence had profaned a space reserved for the funeral conferences and silent reveries of the dead. In a calm night, and when less agitated, she would not, perhaps, have so pitied the rigor of time and the fates which so violently destroy palace and fortress, leaving their ruins on the grass by the side of those of the hut. The sadness which is inspired by the ruins of these formidable abodes rise not identical in the imagination of the artist and the patrician. At this moment of terror and fear, however, and on this stormy night, Consuelo, unsustained by the enthusiasm which had impelled her in more serious undertakings, felt herself again become a child of the people, and trembled at the idea of seeing again appear the phantoms of night, especially the old lords, the stern occupants of them, while alive, and, after death, their threatening and menacing possessors. The thunder lifted up its voice; the wind made the bricks crumble and the cement fall from the dismantled pile, while the long branches of the ivy twined like serpents around the embrasures of the towers. Consuelo, who was looking for a shelter from the fierce tempest, went beneath the vault of a stairway which seemed in better preservation than the others. It was that of a vast feudal tower, the most ancient and solid of the edifice. After about twenty steps, she came to a broad octagonal hall which occupied all the interior of the tower. The opposite stairway having been made, as is the case with all constructions of this kind, in the thickness (eighteen or twenty feet) of the wall. The vault of this hall was like the interior of a hive. There were now neither doors nor windows, but the openings were so narrow that the wind easily lost its power in passing through them. Consuelo resolved to wait in this place until the tempest was over, and approaching a window, stood for more than an hour, contemplating the grand spectacle of a sky in flames, and listening to the terrible voices of the storm.
The wind at last lulled, the clouds became dissipated, and Consuelo thought she would go. On her return, however, she was amazed to find a more permanent light than that of day occupy the interior of the room. This clearness, after a season of, as it were, tremulous light, increased and filled the vault, and a light crackling sound was heard in the hearth. Consuelo looked and saw beneath the half-arch of this old hall, an enormous recess open before her, and a wood-fire which seemed to have kindled itself and burned out alone. She approached, and saw half-burned branches and all that indicated a fire having been kept up, and abandoned without precaution.
Terrified at this circumstance, which informed her of the presence of a host, Consuelo, who saw no trace of furniture here, hurried towards the stairway, and was about to descend, when she heard voices and the sound of feet on the pavement below. Her fantastic terrors then became real apprehensions. This damp and devastated tower could only be inhabited by some gamekeeper, perhaps as savage as his abode—it may be, drunk and brutal—and probably by no means so honest and respectful as the good Matteus. The steps rapidly approached, and Consuelo hurried up the stairway, to avoid being met by those who might come. After having gone about twenty steps, she found herself on the second floor, from the one where they would be apt to come, since, being roofless, it was uninhabitable. Fortunately the rain had ceased, and she saw a few stars through the climbing shrubs, which had covered the top of the tower, about tentoisesabove her head. A ray of light from below soon began to trace shadows on the walls of the ruin, and Consuelo, approaching stealthily, looked through a crevice into the room she had just left. Two men were in the hall: one walking and stamping his feet to warm them, and the other leaning down in the fireplace, attempting to rekindle the fire which began to burn. At first, she did not see that their apparel betokened exalted rank; but the light of the fire being revived, he who heaped it up with the point of his sword, got up to lean the weapon against a salient stone. Consuelo saw long black hair, at the appearance of which she trembled, and a brow which had nearly wrung a cry of terror and tenderness from her. He spoke, and she had no doubt the person she saw was Albert of Rudolstadt.
"Draw near, my friend," said he to his companion, "and warm yourself at the only fireplace of this old castle. A bad state of things, Von Trenck; but you have, in your wanderings, found matter worse."
"Sometimes," answered the lover of the Princess Amelia, "I have found nothing at all. This place is really more comfortable than it seems, and I will be glad to make more of it. Ah! count, you then come sometimes to muse in these ruins andwatch your arms[13]in this haunted tower."
"I often come for better reasons. I cannot now tell you why, but will hereafter."
"I can guess then. From the top of this tower you can look into a certain park and over a certain pavilion."
"No, Trenck; the house you speak of is behind those woods and that hill, and cannot be seen from here."
"But you can go thither from this place in a few moments, and can again take refuge here if troublesome people watch you. Well, now, acknowledge that just as I met you in the room, you were——"
"I can acknowledge nothing, dear Trenck, and you promised not to question me."
"True, I should think of nothing except of rejoicing at having found you in this immense park, or rather forest, where I had lost my way, and but for you must have thrown myself into some picturesque ravine, or been drowned in some limpid stream. Are we far from the castle?"
"More than a quarter of a league."
"The old castle does not please me as well as the new one, I confess, and can see well enough why they yield it up to the bats. I am glad, however, I find myself alone with you at such a mournful time and hour. It reminds me of our first meeting amid the ruins of an abbey in Silesia—my initiation—the oaths I took with my hands in yours, for then you were my judge, my examiner, my master, but now are my brother and my friend. Dear Albert! what strange and miserable vicissitudes have passed over our heads since that day! Both dead to our families, our countries, our loves, perhaps. What will become of us? and what henceforth will be our life among men?"
"Yours may yet be surrounded byéclatand intoxication. The dominions of the tyrant who hates you, thank God, do not cover all the soil of Europe."
"But my mistress, Albert? Will she be always faithful to me—eternally but uselessly faithful?"
"You should not desire it, my friend; but it is certain that her passion will be durable as her sorrow."
"Speak to me of her, Albert, you are more blest than myself, for you are able to see and hear her."
"I can do so no more, dear Trenck. Do not deceive yourself in that matter. The fantastic name and strange character of the person called Trismegistus, with whom I was confounded, and which protected me so long in my brief and mysterious visits to Berlin, have lost theirprestige; my friends will be discreet, and my dupes (for to aid our cause, and your love, it became necessary to make such) will be more shrewd in future. Frederick scented a conspiracy, and I cannot return to Prussia. My efforts will be paralysed by his distrust, and the prison of Spandau will never open again to let me pass."
"Poor Albert! You must have suffered as much in prison as I did. Perhaps more?"
"No, I was near her, and heard her voice. I toiled for her delivery. I regret neither that I endured the horror of a dungeon, nor that I despaired for her life. If I have suffered on my own account, I did not perceive it. She has escaped, and will be happy."
"By your means, Albert! Tell me that she will be happy with and through you only, or I esteem her no more. I withdraw from her my respect and my admiration."
"Do not speak thus, Trenck. To do so is to outrage nature, love, and heaven. Our wives are as free of obligation to us as our mistresses. To bind them in the chains of duty agreeable only to our own feelings, is a crime and a profanation."
"I know it; and without arrogating to myself your lofty feelings, I am aware, had Amelia withdrawn her promise instead of renewing it, I feel I would not on that account cease to love and thank her for the days of happiness she has conferred on me; but it is permitted to me to be more anxious on your account than on my own, and to hate all who do not love you. You smile, Albert, for you do not comprehend my love, nor do I understand your courage. If it be true that she you love has become a victim (before her weeds should have been laid aside) of one ofour brothers, were he the most deserving of them and the most fascinating man in the world, I could never pardon her. If you can do so, you are more than mortal."
"Trenck, Trenck, you know not what you say. You do not understand, and I cannot explain. Do not judge that admirable woman yet. By-and-bye, you will know her."
"Why not justify her to my mind? Why this mystery? We are alone here. Your confessions will not compromise her, and I am aware of no oath which binds you to hide from me things that we all suspect. She loves you not? What is her excuse?"
"She never loved me."
"That is her offence. She did not understand you."
"She could not, and I was unable to reveal myself to her. Besides, I was sick and mad. No one loves a madman. They are to be pitied and feared."
"Albert, you were never a madman. I never saw you crazed. The wisdom and power of your mind dazzled me."
"You saw me firm and self-possessed while in action. You never saw me in the agony of repose, or in the tortures of discouragement."
"You know, then, what it is to feel so. I did not think so."
"The reason is, you do not see all the dangers, obstacles, and vices of our enterprise. You have never sounded the abyss into which I plunged all my soul, and cast all my existence. You have looked at its chivalric and generous side; you have seen but easy looks and smiling hopes."
"The reason, count, is that I am less great, less enthusiastic than yourself. You drained the cup of zeal to the very dregs; and when its bitterness suffocated you, suspicions of man and heaven arose."
"Yes; and I have suffered cruelly on that account."
"And do you doubt yet—do you still suffer?"
"Now I hope, believe, and act. I am strong and happy. Do you not see joy enkindle my brow? Do you not see my very heart is intoxicated?"
"Yet you have been betrayed by your mistress? What do I say? by your wife."
"She was never either one or the other. She owes me no duty. God has vouchsafed her his love—the most celestial of his boons—as her reward for having pitied me for a moment on my death-bed. Shall I still hold her to a promise wrested from her generous compassion and sublime charity? Should I do so, I would then say, 'Woman, I am your master. You are mine by law, by your own imprudence and error. You shall tolerate my embraces, because once on our parting day you kissed my icy brow. You shall place your hand in mine forever, walk my way, bear my yoke, crush the young love in your bosom, trample down irrepressible desires, and consume in sorrow, in my profane arms, on my selfish and cowardly heart.' Oh! Trenck, think you I could be happy did I act thus? Would not my life be a bitterer torment than her own? The suffering of the slave would be the master's curse. Great God! what being is so degraded, so brutal, as to become proud and intoxicated with a love which is not mutual, with a fidelity against which the heart of the victim revolts? I thank heaven that such I am not and cannot be. I was going this evening to see Consuelo, and tell her all this, and restore her to liberty. I did not meet her in the garden where she usually walks, and then this storm came and stripped me of the hope of seeing her. I did not wish to visit her rooms. I would then have used my rights as a husband. The quivering of her terror, the very pallor of her despair, would have done me an injury I cannot bear."
"And have you not also met in the dark Leverani's black mask?"
"Who is Leverani?"
"Are you ignorant of your master's name?"
"Leverani is an assumed name. Do you not know this man, my happy rival?"
"No; but you ask this in a strange manner. Albert, I think I understand you. You pardon your unfortunate wife. You abandon her, as you should do. You should, however, chastise her base seducer."
"Are you sure he is base?"
"What! the man to whom the care of her rescue, and the keeping of her person during a long and dangerous journey was confided—the man who should protect and respect her, who should not speak to her or show her his face—a man invested with the power and blind confidence of the Invisibles—your brother in arms and oath, as I am? Ah! had that woman been confided to me, I would not have dreamed of the base treachery of winning her love."
"Once more, Trenck, you know not what you say. Only three of us know this Leverani and his crime. In a few days you will cease to blame this happy mortal, to whom God in his goodness has vouchsafed Consuelo's love."
"Strange and sublime man! do you not hate him?"
"I cannot do so."
"You will not interfere with his happiness?"
"I toil ardently to secure it, and there is nothing strange or sublime in this. You will ere long smile at the praises you give me."
"What! do you not even suffer?"
"I am the happiest of men."
"Then you either love her little or love her much. Such heroism is not in human nature. It is almost monstrous, and I cannot admire what I cannot comprehend. Listen, count. You laugh at me and I am very simple. I have guessed all, though. You love another woman, and thank Providence for having delivered you from all obligation to Consuelo, by making her unfaithful."
"I must than, open my heart, baron, to you, for you force me to do so. Listen: this is my story—a whole romance. But it is cold here, and this brush fire is insufficient to warm these old walls, which, I am afraid, remind you of those of Glatz. It has become clear, and we can find our way to the castle. Since you go at dawn, I will not detain you up longer. As we walk I will tell you a strange story."
The two friends resumed their hats, after having shaken off the rain. Trampling on the brands, to put them out, they left the tower arm in arm. Their voices soon became lost in the distance, and the echoes of the old mansion soon ceased to repeat the feeble noise of their steps on the damp grass of the court.
[13]"Faire la veillée des armes." The watch of a knight's armor on the night before he was dubbed.
[13]"Faire la veillée des armes." The watch of a knight's armor on the night before he was dubbed.
Consuelo remained in a state of strange stupor. What amazed her most, what the testimony of her senses could hardly persuade her of, was not the magnanimous conduct of Albert, nor his heroic sentiments, but the wonderful facility with which he himself solved the terrible problem of fate he had made himself. Was it, then, so easy for Consuelo to be happy? Was her love for Leverani lawful? She thought she had dreamed what she had heard. It was already permitted her to yield to her love of the stranger. The austere Invisibles permitted Albert to consent on account of his greatness of soul, his courage, and virtue. Albert himself justified and defended her against Trenck's censure. Finally, Albert and the Invisibles, far from condemning their mutual passion, abandoned them to themselves, to their invincible sympathy. All this was without effort, without regret or remorse, without a tear from any one. Consuelo, quivering with emotion rather than cold, returned to the vast vaulted room, and rekindled the fire which Albert and Trenck had sought to put out. She looked at the prints of their wet feet on the floor. This satisfied her of the reality of their presence, and Consuelo needed the evidence to satisfy herself. Stooping in the hearthside, like a dreamy Cinderella, protected ever by the fireside spirits, she sank into intense meditation. So facile a triumph over fate had not seemed possible to her. Yet no fear could prevail against the wonderful serenity of Albert. Consuelo could least of all doubt this—Albert did not suffer. Her love did not offend his justice. He fulfilled, with a kind of enthusiastic joy, the greatest sacrifice it is in the power of man to offer to God. She did not ask if to be thus detached from human weakness could be reconciled with human affections. Did not this peculiarity betoken a new phase of madness? After the exaggeration of sorrow produced by memory and isolated sentiment, did he not feel, as it were a kind of paralysis of heart in relation to the past? Could he be cured so soon of his love? and was this love so unimportant a matter that a simple act of will, a simple decision of mind, could thus efface every trace of it? Though admiring this triumph of philosophy, Consuelo could not but feel humiliated at seeing thus destroyed, by a single breath, the long passion of which she had ever been so justly proud. She passed in review the least words he had uttered, and the expression of his face, as he spoke, was yet before her eyes. It was an expression with which Consuelo was unacquainted. Albert was also as much changed in externals as in mind. To tell the truth, he was a new man: and had not the sound of his voice, his features, and the reality of his conversation satisfied her, Consuelo might have thought that she saw in his place thatSosia, that fanciful Trismegistus, whom the doctor persisted in substituting for him. The modification which quiet and health had conferred on Albert seemed to confirm Supperville's error. He had ceased to be so painfully emaciated, and seemed to have grown, so expanded did his hitherto thin and feeble form seem to have become. He had another bearing. He moved with more activity, his step was firmer, and his dress as elegant and careful as it had been negligent and despised. His very trifling habits now amazed Consuelo. In other days he would not have dreamed of fire. He would have been sorry that his friend Trenck was wet, but would not have dreamed, so foreign to him were all external things, of gathering up the scattered brands. He would not have shaken his hat before he put it on, and would have let the rain run unremarked through his long hair. Now he wore a sword, though of yore he would never have consented to do so, or even play with it. Now it did not annoy him; he saw its blade glitter in the blaze, and did not recall the blood his ancestors had shed. The expiation imposed on John Ziska, in his person, was a painful dream, which blessed slumber had entirely effaced. Perhaps he had forgotten it when he forgot the other memories of his life and love, which seemed to have been, yet not to be, those of his own life.
Something strange and unnatural took place in Consuelo's mind, which was like chagrin, regret, and wounded pride. She repeated to herself the supposition Trenck had made in relation to a new passion, and this idea seemed probable. A new love alone could grant him toleration and pity. His last words, as he led his friend away,storyandromance, were a confirmation of this doubt. Were they not an explanation of the intense joy which seemed to animate him?
"Yes, his eyes gleamed," thought Consuelo, "as I never saw them before. His smile had an expression of intoxication of triumph. He smiled, he almost laughed. There was even irony in his tone when he said, "You will smile at your praise." Doubt is gone; he loves, yet not me. He does not object, he does not oppose my infidelity; he urges me on, and rejoices at it. He does not blush for me, but gives me up to a weakness of which I alone am ashamed, and the disgrace of which will fall on me alone. Oh, heaven! I alone was not guilty. Albert has been yet more so. Alas! why did I discover the secret of a generosity I would have admired so much, even though I did not avail myself of it. I see clearly now that there is a sanctity in plighted faith. God only, who changes our hearts, can loose us. Then, perhaps, beings united by their oaths may give and receive the sacrifice of their faiths. When mutual inconstancy alone presides over divorce, something terrible occurs, and there is, as it were, a complicity of parricide between the two. They have coldly stifled in their bosoms the love which united them."
Consuelo early in the morning regained the wood. She had passed the whole night in the tower, absorbed by countless dark and sad thoughts. She had no difficulty in finding the road homewards, though she had gone over it in the dark, and her anxiety made it seem shorter than it really was. She descended the hill, and retraced her steps up the rivulet, till she came to the grating, which she passed, walking along its horizontal bars above the water. She was no longer afraid or agitated. It did not matter whether she was seen or not, for she had determined to tell her confessor everything. Besides, the sentiments of her past life so occupied her, that present things had but a secondary interest. Leverani scarcely seemed to exist for her. The human heart is so constituted, that young love needs dangers and obstacles. Old love revives when we cannot awaken it in the heart of another.
On this occasion the invisible guardians of Consuelo seemed all asleep, and her nocturnal walk had been observed by no one. She found a new letter of the stranger on her piano, as tenderly respectful as the one of the previous evening had been bold and passionate. He complained that she had been afraid of him, and reproached her for having shut herself up in her apartments from fear, as if she entertained doubt as to the humility of his veneration. He humbly asked to be permitted to see her in the garden at twilight, and promised not to speak to her, not to show himself, if she demanded it. "Let it be an alienation of heart, or an error of judgment," added he, "Albert renounces you, tranquilly, and apparently even coldly. Duty speaks to him more loudly than love. In a few days the Invisibles will announce their resolution, and give you the signal of liberty. You can then remain here, to become initiated in their mysteries; and if you persist in this generous intention, I will abide by my oath, not to show myself to you. If you have made this promise only from compassion, if you wish to release yourself, speak, and I will break my engagements, and fly with you. I am not Albert; I have more love than virtue. Choose."
"Yes, that is certain," said Consuelo, letting the letter fall on the strings of the piano. "This man loves me, and Albert does not. It is possible that he never loved me, and that my image has been a mere creation of his delirium. Yet this love seemed to me sublime. Would to God it yet were sufficiently so, to enable me to conquer mine by a painful and sublime sacrifice! This would be far better for us than the separation of two adulterous hearts. Better, too, were it that Leverani should be abandoned by me, with pain and grief, than received as a necessity of my isolation, in a season of anger, indignation, shame, and painful intoxication of passion."
She wrote to Leverani, in reply, the following brief words:—
"I am too proud and too sincere to deceive you. I know what Albert thinks, and what he has resolved on. I have overheard his confessions to a mutual friend. He leaves me without regret, and virtue alone does not triumph in his love. I will not follow his example. I loved you, and abandon you without loving another. I owe this sacrifice to my dignity and conscience. I hope you will not come near my house. If you yield to a blind passion, if you wrest any new confession from me, you will repent it. You would perhaps be indebted for my confidence to the just anger of a broken heart, and to the terror of a crushed soul. This would be my punishment and your own. If you persist, Leverani, you do not feel the love I have thought you did."
Leverani did persist. He continued to write, and was eloquent, persuasive, and sincere in his humility.
"You make an appeal to my pride," said he, "yet I exhibit no pride to you. If in my arms you regretted an absent person, I would suffer, but would not be offended. I would ask you, as I lay at your feet and watered them with tears, to forget him and trust yourself to me alone. Howsoever you love me, how little soever it may be, I will be grateful as if for an immense blessing."
Such was the substance of a series of ardent and timid, submissive and persevering letters.
Consuelo felt her pride give way before the penetrating charm of a true love. Insensibly she grew used to the idea that none had loved her before, not even the Count of Rudolstadt. Repulsing, then, the voluntary outrage she had fancied was made on the sanctity of her recollections, she feared lest by exhibiting it, she might become an obstacle to the happiness Albert promised himself from a new love. She resolved, then, to submit quietly to the decree of a separation, which he seemed determined to enforce the Invisibles to make, and abstained from writing his name in her letters to the stranger, whom she bade be equally prudent.
In other matters their letters were full of prudence and delicacy. Consuelo, in separating herself from Albert, and in receiving into her soul the idea of another affection, was unwilling to yield to a blind intoxication. She forbade the Chevalier to see her, or violate his oath of silence until it had been removed by the Invisibles. She declared that freely and voluntarily she wished to adhere to the mysterious association which inspired her with respect and confidence. She was determined to be initiated in their doctrines, and to defend herself from every personal engagement, until, by something of virtue, she had acquired the right to think of her own happiness. She had not power to tell him that she did not love him; but was able to say that she would not love him without reflection.
Leverani appeared to submit, and Consuelo studied attentively many volumes which Matteus had given her one day from the Prince, saying that his highness and the court had left the castle, but that she would soon have news of him. She was satisfied with this message, and asked Matteus no questions. She read the history of the mysteries of antiquity, of Christianity, and of the different sects and secret societies derived from each. This was a very learned manuscript compilation, made in the library of the order of the Invisibles, by some learned and conscientious adept. This serious and laborious study at first occupied not a little of her attention and even of her imagination. The picture of the tests of the ancient Egyptian temples gave rise to many terrible and poetic dreams. The story of the persecution of sects, during the middle ages, and during the period of revival, excited her heart more than ever; and this history of enthusiasm prepared her soul for the religious fanaticism of a speedy initiation. For fifteen days she had no information from home, and lived in seclusion, surrounded by the mysterious care of the Chevalier, but firm in her resolution not to see him, and not to inspire him with too much hope.
The summer heat began to be felt, and Consuelo, being absorbed by her studies, could rest and breathe freely only in the cool of the evening. Gradually, she had resumed her slow and dreamy walks in the garden and enclosures. She thought herself alone, yet vague emotions made her often fancy that the stranger was not far from her. Those beautiful nights, the glorious shades, the solitude, the languishing murmur of the running water amid the flowers, the perfume of plants, the passionate song of the nightingale, followed by yet more voluptuous silence—the moon casting its broad, oblique light beneath the transparent shadows of the sweet nurseries, the setting of Hesperus behind the horizon's roseate clouds—all these classical but eternal emotions, ever fresh and mighty with youth and love, immersed the soul of Consuelo in dangerous reveries. Her thin shadow on the silvery garden walks, the flight of a bird aroused by her step, the rustling of a leaf agitated by the wind, sufficed to increase her pace. These slight terrors were scarcely dissipated when they were replaced by an indefinable regret, and the palpitations of expectation were more powerful than all the suggestions of her will.
Once she was more disturbed than usual by the rustling of the leaves and the uncertain sounds of the night. She fancied some one walked not far from her, and when she sat down she thought the sound came nearer her. Agitation aroused her still more, as she felt herself powerless to resist an interview in those beautiful places and beneath that magnificent sky. The breath of the breeze seemed to burn her cheek. She fled to the house and shut herself up in her room. The candles were not yet lighted. She placed herself behind ajalousie, and anxiously wished to see him by whom she could not be seen. She saw a man appear, and advance slowly beneath her windows. He approached silently and without a gesture, and submissively appeared satisfied in gazing on the walls within which she dwelt. This man was the Chevalier, at least Consuelo in her anxiety thought so, and fancied that she recognised his bearing and gait. Strange and painful doubts and fears, however, soon took possession of her mind. This silent muser recalled Albert to her mind as much as he did Leverani. They were of the same stature, now that Albert was invigorated with health, and could walk at ease without his head hanging on his bosom, or resting on his hand, in an unhealthy or sad manner. Consuelo could scarcely distinguish him from the Chevalier. She had seen the latter for a moment by daylight walking before her and wrapped up in the folds of his cloak. She had seen Albert for a few moments in the deserted tower, and thought him entirely different from what she had seen him before. Now that she saw by starlight either the one or the other, she was about to resolve all her doubts; but the object passed beneath some shadow, and like a shadow flitted away. At length it entirely disappeared, and Consuelo was divided between joy and fear, charging herself with want of courage in not having called Albert's name at all hazards, and asked for an explanation.
This repentance became more keen as the object withdrew, and as the persuasion that it was Albert broke on her. Led away by this habit of devotion, which had, so far as he was concerned, always occupied the place of love, she thought if he thus wandered around her it was in the timid hope of talking with her. It was not the first time he had sought to do so. She had said so to Trenck one evening, when perhaps he had passed Leverani in the dark. Consuelo determined to bring about this necessary explanation. Her conscience required that she should clear up all doubts in relation to the true disposition of a husband, whether it was generous or volatile. She went down to the garden, and ran after the mysterious visitor, trembling yet courageous; but she searched through the whole of the enclosure without finding him.
At length she saw, on the verge of a thicket, a man standing close to the water. Was this the person she sought for? She called him by the name of Albert, and he trembled and passed his hands over his face. When he removed them, the black mask was there.
"Albert! is it you?" said Consuelo. "You alone I look for."
A stifled exclamation of surprise from the person to whom she spoke betrayed some indescribable emotion of joy or grief. He appeared to wish to get away; but Consuelo fancied she recognised Albert's voice, and rushing forward caught him by the cloak, which, parting at his shoulder, exhibited on the bosom of the stranger a silver cross. Consuelo knew it but too well: it was that of her mother—the same she had given to the Chevalier during her journey with him, as a pledge of gratitude and sympathy.
"Leverani!" said she; "you again! Since it is you, adieu! Why do you disobey me?"
He threw himself at her feet, folded her in his arms, and embraced her so ardently, yet respectfully, that Consuelo could not resist.
"If you love me, and would have me love you, leave me," said she. "I will see and hear you before the Invisibles. Your mask terrifies me, and your silence freezes my heart!"
Leverani placed his hand on his mask. He was about to tear it away and to speak. Consuelo, like the curious Psyche, had not courage to turn away her eyes.
All at once, however, the black veil of the messengers of the secret tribunal fell over her brow. The hand of the unknown which had seized hers was silently detached.
Consuelo felt herself led away rapidly, but without violence or apparent anger. She was lifted from the ground, and then felt the spring of the planks of a boat beneath her feet. She floated down a stream a long time without any one speaking to her, and when restored to light found herself in the subterranean cave where she had before appeared at the bar of the Invisibles.
The seven were there, as when she had first seen them, mute, masked, and impenetrable as phantoms. The eighth, who had then spoken to Consuelo, and seemed to be the interpreter of the council and initiator of adepts, thus spoke to her:—
"Consuelo, you have passed through the tests to which we have subjected you with satisfaction. We can grant you our confidence, and are about to prove it."
"Listen!" said Consuelo. "You think me free from reproach; yet I am not. I have disobeyed you. I left the retreat you assigned me."
"From curiosity?"
"No."
"Will you tell us what you learned?"
"What I have learned is purely personal. Among you is a confessor, to whom I can and will reveal all."
The old man rose and said—
"I know all. This girl's fault is trivial. She knows nothing that you wish her to be ignorant of. The confidence of her thoughts is between her and me. In the interim, use the present moment to reveal to her what she should know. I will vouch for her in all things."
The initiator then said, after he had looked towards the tribunal, and received a token of assent—
"Listen to me! I speak in the name of all you see. It is their spirit, and, so to say, their breath, which inspires me. I am about to expound their doctrine to you.
"The distinctive character of the religions of antiquity is, that they have two faces—one exterior and public, the other inward and secret; the one is the spirit, the other the form or letter. Behind the material or grosser symbol is the profound sense, the sublime idea. Egypt and India, the great types of ancient religions, mothers of true doctrines, offer this duality of aspect in the highest degree. This is the necessary and fatal sign of the infancy of societies, and of the miseries attached to the development of the genius of man. You have recently learned in what consisted the great mysteries of Eleusis and Memphis, and now you know why divine science, political and social, concentrated with the triple religions, military and industrial, in the hands of the hierophants, did not descend to the lowest grades of the ancient societies. The Christian idea, surrounded in the word of its revealer by transparent and pure symbols, was granted to the world to communicate to the popular mind a knowledge of truth and the light of faith. Theocracy, though the inevitable abuse of religions established in times of trouble and danger, soon came to veil doctrine again, and in doing so changed it. Idolatry reappeared with the mysteries, and the painful expansion of Christianity; the hierophants of Apostolic Rome lost by divine punishment the divine light, and fell into the darkness into which they sought to plunge men. The development of the human mind then worked in a course altogether different to the past. The temple no longer was, as of yore, the sanctuary of truth; superstition and ignorance, the gross symbol, the dead letter, sat on altars and thrones. The spirit at last descended to minds which had been very degraded. Poor monks, obscure doctors, humble penitents, virtuous apostles of the primitive church made the secret and persecuted religion the asylum of the unknown truth. They sought to declare to the people the religion of equality, and in the name of Saint John preached a new religion—that is to say, a more free interpretation, and, at the same time, a bolder and purer one than that of the Christian revelation. You know the history of their labors, of their combats, and martyrdoms; you know the sufferings of nations, their ardent inspirations, their lamentable decay, and proud revival; and that amid efforts successively terrible and sublime, their heroic perseverance put darkness to flight and discovered the path to God. The time is near when the veil of the temple will be removed forever, and when the masses will fill the sanctuaries of the sacred arch. Then symbols will disappear, and access to truth will not be guarded by the dragons of religious despotism. All will be able to approach God with all the power of their souls. No one will say to his brother, 'Be ignorant, and bow down;' but on the other hand, 'Open thine eyes and receive the light.' Any man, on the contrary, will be able to ask aid from his neighbor's eye, heart, and arm, to penetrate the arcana of sacred science. That day has not yet come, and we are able to see merely the glimmer of its dawn trembling on the horizon. The duration of the secret religion is endless, the task of mystery is not yet fulfilled. We are as yet shut up in the temple, busy in forging arms to push aside the enemies who interpose between nations and ourselves, and must yet keep our doors closed and our words secret, that the holy ark may not be wrested from us after it has been saved with such trouble, and kept for the common good of mankind.
"You are now received into the new temple: this temple, however, is yet a fortress, which, for centuries, has held out for liberty without being able to gain it. War is around us. We wish to be liberators, though as yet we are but combatants. You are come to share a fraternal communion, the standard of safety, the toil for liberty, and, perhaps, too, to die with us in the breach. This is the destiny you have selected, and, perhaps, will die without having seen the gage of victory float above your head. Yet, in the name of St. John, do you call men to the crusade. We yet invoke a symbol; we are the heirs of the Johannites of old; the unknown, mysterious, and persevering preservers of Wickliffe, of Huss, and of Luther: like them, we wish to enfranchise the human race; but, like them, are not free ourselves; and walk, perhaps, to the sacrifice.
"The strife, however, has changed ground, and the nature of its arms. We yet brave the dark rigor of laws; we expose ourselves yet to proscription, misery, and death—for the ways of tyranny are unchangeable. We no longer invoke material revolt, the bloody cause of the cross and sword: our warfare is intellectual as our mission. We appeal to the mind. Not with the armed hand can government be overturned or built up; sustained, as they now are by physical force. We wage a slower, more mute, and profound warfare—we attack the heart. We destroy the very foundations, by destroying the blind faith and idolatrous respect they inspire.
"We cause to penetrate everywhere, even into courts, and the troubled and fascinated minds of princes and kings, what as yet none dare call the poison of philosophy: we destroy all mere prestige. We throw from the summit of our fortress the burning shot of ardent truth and implacable reason against every throne. Doubt not but that we will conquer. In how many days—in how many years, we know not. Yet our undertaking is so old, has been conducted with such faith, and stifled with such little success, that it cannot fail. It has become immortal in its nature as the deathless boons it has sought to conquer. Our ancestors began, and each generation dreamed of its completion. Did we not entertain some hope of it ourselves, our zeal would become exhausted and less efficacious: but if the spirit of doubt and irony which now rules the world should prove to us, by its cold calculation and overpowering logic, that we pursue a dream not to be realized until centuries have passed, our conviction in the holiness of our cause would not be shaken, and though we toiled with more effort and grief, we would toil, at least, for men yet to be born. Between us and the men of past and future generations, is a religious tie, so strict and firm that we have almost stifled the selfish and personal portion of human nature. This the vulgar will not understand; yet there is in the pride of nobility something not unlike the old hereditary religious enthusiasm. The great sacrifice much to glory, to make themselves worthy of their ancestors, and to bequeath something to posterity. We, architects of the true temple, have made many sacrifices to virtue, to continue the work of our masters and to make laborious apprentices. In spirit and in heart we live at once in the past, the present, and the future. Our predecessors and successors are as muchweas ourselves are. We believe in the transmission of life, of sentiments, and of generous instincts in the soul, as nobles believe in the purity of blood in their veins. We go farther; we believe in the transmission of life, individuality, soul, and the very body; we feel ourselves fatally and providentially called to continue the work of which we have already dreamed, have always pursued, and advanced from century to century. There are some amongst us who have carried the contemplation of the past so far as almost to have lost sight of the present. This is the sublime fever, the ecstacy of saints and prophets, for we have both, and, perhaps, also our mad and visionary men. Whatever, though, may be the wanderings or the sublimity of their transport, we respect their inspiration, and among us Albert theseerand the ecstatic has found brothers filled with sorrow for his sorrow, and admiration for his enthusiasm. We also believe in the sincerity of the Count of St. Germain, who by others is thought an impostor or a madman. Though his ideas of a period inaccessible to human memory, have a character calmer, more precise and perhaps more inconceivable than Albert's ecstasies, they, too, have a character of good faith and lucidness at which it is impossible for us to laugh. We have among us many other enthusiasts—mystics, poets, men of the people, philosophers, artists, and ardent sectarians, grouped beneath the banner of different chiefs. We have Boehmists, Theosophists, Moravians, Hernhuters, Quakers, even Pantheists, Pythagoreans, Xerophagists, Illuminati, Johannites, Templars, Millenarians, Joachimites,&c. All these old sects, though not developed as they were at the period of their closing are yet existing, and, to a great degree, not modified. Our object is to reproduce at one era all the forms which the genius of innovation has assumed successively in past centuries, relative to religious and philosophical thought. We therefore gather our agents from these various groups, without requiring identity or precepts, which in our time would be impossible. It is enough that they are ardent for reformation, to admit them into our ranks. All our science of organization consists in selecting actors only from those who have minds superior to scholastic disputes, to whom the passion for truth, the search after justice, and the instinct of moral beauty are more powerful than family habits and sectarian rivalry. In other respects, it is not so difficult as it is imagined, to make the most dissimilar things work in concert, for their dissimilarity is more apparent than real. In fact, all heretics (and I use this word with respect) agree in one principal point, that of the destruction of mental and physical tyranny, or, at least, a protest against them. The antagonisms which have hitherto prevented the fusion of all these generous but useless rivalries, are derived from self-love and jealousy, the inherent vices of the condition of man, and a fatal counterpoise to progress. In managing these susceptibilities, by permitting every communion to preserve its teachers, its conductors, and its rights, it is possible to constitute, if not a society, at least an army, and I have told you we are an army marching to the conquest of a promised land, of an ideal society. At the point where human society now stands, there are so many shades of individual character, so many gradations in the conception of the true, so many varied aspects and ingenious manifestations of the nature of man, that it is absolutely necessary to leave to each the conditions of his moral life and power of action.
"Our work is great—our task is immense. We do not wish to found merely an universal empire, or a new order, on equitable bases, but we desire to establish a religion. We are well aware that the one is impossible without the other. We have, therefore, two modes of action: one material—to undermine and subvert the old world by criticism, by ridicule, by the Voltairian philosophy, and by all that is connected with it. The formidable union of all the bold minds and strong passions hurries our march in that direction. Our other mode of action is entirely spiritual; it has to do with religion, and with the future. Theeliteof intelligences and of virtues assist us in our incessant labors. The ground-work of the Invisibles is a concilium which the persecution of the official world prevents from being publicly assembled, but which ceaselessly deliberates, and, under the same inspiration, toils in every part of the world. Mysterious communications bring forth the grain as it ripens, and seed, too, for the field of humanity, as we cut it from the grass. In this subterranean toil you may participate, and we will tell you how, when you shall have accepted our offers."
"I do accept," said Consuelo, firmly, and lifting up her hands, as if to swear.
"Do not promise hastily, woman with generous instincts and enterprising soul. You have not, perhaps, all the virtues such a mission requires. You have passed through the world—you have already tasted the ideas of prudence, of what is called propriety, discretion, and good conduct——"
"I do not flatter myself that I have," said Consuelo, smiling, with modesty and pride.
"Well, you have learned, at least, to doubt, to discuss, to rail, to suspect."
"To doubt, it may be. Remove suspicion, which was not a part of my nature, and which has caused me much suffering, and I will bless you. Above all, remove all doubt of myself, for that feeling makes me powerless."
"We can remove doubt only by developing our principles. To give you material guaranties of our sincerity and power, is impossible; on that point we will do no more than we have hitherto. Let the services we have rendered you suffice: we will always aid you when an occasion occurs, but will not initiate you into the mysteries of our thought and action, except in the particular matter we confide to you. You will not know us, you will never see our faces. You will never know our names, unless some great interest force us to infringe and violate the law which makes us unknown and invisible to our disciples. Can you submit, and yield yourself blindly to men, who to you never will be anything but abstract beings, living ideas, aiders, and mysterious advisers."