"The experience of what a powerful and energetic mind, though in a diseased body, can accomplish, made me have more confidence in the power of Albert. I became used to see him sometimes weary and crushed, and again animated and excited, as I was. Often we bore together the same physical pain, the result of the same moral emotion. Never, perhaps, was our intimacy more gentle and close, than when the same fever burned in our veins, and the same excitement confounded our feeble sighs, now many times has it seemed that we were one being! How many times have we broken silence merely to address to each other the same words! How often, agitated and crushed in different manners, have we, by a clasp of the hand, communicated languor or agitation to each other! How much good and evil have we known together! Oh, my son! my only passion! flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone! what tempests have we passed through, covered by the same celestial ægis! what devastation have we escaped by clinging to each other, and by pronouncing the same formula of safety, love, truth, and justice!
"We were in Poland, on the frontiers of Turkey, and Albert, having passed through all the initiations of masonry, and the superior grades of the society which forms the link of the chain next to our own, was about to go to that part of Germany where we are, in order that he might be introduced to the secret bench of the Invisibles. Count Christian just then sent for him. This was a thunderbolt to me. My son, in spite of all the care I had taken to keep him from forgetting my family, loved it only as a tender recollection of the past. He did not understand the possibility of living any longer with it. It did not enter, however, into our minds to resist this order, dictated with cold dignity, and with confidence in paternal authority, as it is interpreted in the Catholic and noble families of our country. Albert prepared to leave me—he knew not for how long a time, yet without fancying that he would not see me shortly, and unite with Marcus the ties of our association. Albert had a small idea of time, and still less an appreciation of the material events of life.
"'Do we part?' said he, when he saw me weep. 'We cannot. Often as I have called on you from the depths of my heart, you have come. I will call you again.'
"'Albert—Albert—I cannot accompany you where you go now.'
"He grew pale and clung to me like a terrified child. The time was come to reveal my secret. 'I am not the soul of your mother,' said I, after a brief preamble, 'butyour mother!"
"'Why do you say that?' said he, with a strange smile. 'Think you I did not know it? Are we not alike? Have I not seen your portrait at the Giants' Castle? Have I forgotten you? Besides, have I not always seen and known you?'
"'And you were not surprised to see me alive, when all thought me buried at the Giants' Castle?'
"'No,' said he, 'I was not surprised. I was too happy. God has miraculous power, and men need not be amazed at it.'
"The strange child had more difficulty in understanding the terrible realities of my story, than the miracle he had fancied. He had believed in my resurrection, as in that of Christ. He had fancied my doctrines about the transmission of life to be literal, and believed in it to the fullest sense. That is to say, he was not amazed to see me preserve the certainty of my identity, after having laid aside one body to deck me with another. I am not certain, even, if I satisfied him that my life had not been interrupted by my fainting, and that my mortal envelope had not remained in the tomb. He listened to me with a wondering and yet excited physiognomy, as if he had heard me speak other words than those I had uttered. Something inexplicable at that moment passed in his mind. A terrible link yet retained Albert on the brink of the abyss. Real life could not animate him, until he had passed through that crisis from which I had been so miraculously rescued—this apparent death, which in him was to be the last effort of eternity, struggling against the hold of time. My heart seemed ready to burst as I left him. A painful presentiment vaguely informed me that he was about to enter that phase which might almost be called climacteric, which had so violently shaken my own existence, and that the time was not far distant when Albert would either be annihilated or renewed. I had observed that he had a tendency to catalepsy. He had under my observation accesses of slumber—long, deep, and terrible. His respiration was weak, his pulse so feeble that I never ceased to write or say to Marcus, 'Let us never bury Albert, or else let us never be afraid to open his tomb.' Unfortunately for us, Marcus could not go to the Giants' Castle, being excluded from the territories of the Empire. He had been deeply compromised by an insurrection at Prague; to which, indeed, his influence had not been foreign. He had by flight only escaped from the stern Austrian laws. A prey to uneasiness, I came hither. Albert had promised to write to me every day, and I resolved also, as soon as I failed to receive a letter, to go to Bohemia, and appear at Riesenberg in spite of all difficulties.
"The grief he felt at our separation was not less than mine. He did not understand what was going on. He did not seem to believe me. When, however, he had gone beneath that roof, the very air of which appears to be a poison to the burning hearts of the descendants of Ziska, he received a terrible shock. He hurried to the room I had always occupied. He called me, and not seeing me come, became persuaded that I had died again, and would not be restored to him during the present life. Thus, at least, he explained to me what passed at that fatal moment, when his reason was shaken so violently that it did not recover for years. He looked at my picture for a long time. After all, a portrait is but an imperfect resemblance, and the peculiar sentiment the artist seizes and preserves is always inferior to that entertained by those who love us ardently; no likeness can please them; they are alternately afflicted and offended. Albert, when he compared this representation of my youth and beauty, did not recognise his dear old mother in the grey hair which seemed so venerable, and the paleness which appealed to his heart. He hurried in terror from the portrait, and met his relations, sombre, silent and afraid. He went to my tomb, and was attacked with vertigo and terror. To him the idea of death appeared monstrous; yet to console him his father had said I was there, and that he must kneel and pray for the repose of my soul.
"'Repose?' said Albert, without reflection, 'Repose of the soul! My mother's soul was not formed for such annihilation; neither was mine. We will neither of us rest in the grave. Never—never! This Catholic cavern, these sealed sepulchres, this desertion of life, this divorce of heaven and earth, body and soul, horrifies me!'"
By similar conversation Albert began to fill the timid and simple heart of his father with terror. His words were reported to the chaplain to be explained. This feeble man saw nothing in it but the outbreak of a soul doomed to eternal damnation. The superstitions fear which was diffused in the minds of all around Albert, the efforts of the family to lead him to return to the Catholic faith, tortured him, and his excitement assumed the unhealthy character you have seen in him. His ideas became confounded; and although he had seen evidences of my existence, he forgot that he had known me alive, and I seemed ever a fugitive spectre ready to abandon him. His fancy evoked this spectre, and inspired him with incoherent speeches and painful cries. When he became more calm, his reason was, as it were, veiled in a cloud. He had forgotten recent things, and was satisfied he had been dreaming for eight years, or rather those eight years of happiness and life seemed to be the creation of an hour of slumber.
"Receiving no letter, I was about to hurry to him. Marcus retained me. He said the post-office department intercepted our letters, or that the Rudolstadts suppressed them. My son was represented by his family, calm, well and happy. You know how sedulously his situation was concealed, and with what success, for a long time.
"In his travels Albert had known young Trenck, and was bound to him by the warmest friendship. Trenck, loved by the Princess of Prussia and persecuted by Frederick, wrote to my son of his joys and misfortunes. He requested him to come to Dresden to give him the benefit of his aid and arm. Albert made this journey, and no sooner had he left Riesenberg than he regained memory and mind. Trenck met my son amid the neophytes of the Invisibles. There they were made members of a chivalric fraternity. Having learned from Marcus of their intended interview, I hurried to Dresden, followed him to Prussia, where he introduced himself into the Royal Palace in disguise, to serve Trenck's love and fulfil a mission confided to him by the Invisibles. Marcus thought this activity and the knowledge of a useful and generousrôlemight rescue Albert from his dangerous melancholy. He was right, for while among us Albert again became attached to life. Marcus, on his return, wished to bring and keep him for some time here, amid the real chiefs of the order. He was convinced that by breathing the true vital atmosphere of a superior soul, Albert would recover the lucidness of his mind. On the route he met the impostor Cagliostro, and was imprudently initiated by the rose-crosses in some of their mysteries. Albert, who long had received therose-cross, now passed that grade and presided over their mysteries as Grand-Master. He then saw what, as yet, he had but a presentiment of. He saw the various elements of which masonic associations are composed, and distinguished the error, folly, emptiness and vanity which filled these sanctuaries, already a prey to the vices of the century. Cagliostro, by means of his police, which was ever watchful for the petty secrets of the world, which he feigned were the revelations of a familiar demon, by means of his captious eloquence, which parodied the great revolutionary inspirations, by the surprising tricks which enabled him to evoke shadows, and by his intrigues, horrified the noble adept. The credulity of the world, the low superstition of a large number of freemasons, the shameless cupidity excited by promises of the philosopher's stone, and so many other miseries of the age we live in had kindled a fire in his heart. Amid his retreat and study he had not distinctly understood the human race. He was not prepared to contend with all its bad instincts. He could not suffer such misery. He wished all charlatans and sorcerers to be unmasked and expelled shamelessly from our temples. He was aware that the degrading association of Cagliostro must be submitted to, because it was too late to get rid of him, and because his anger might deprive them of many estimable friends, and that, flattered by their protection and an appearance of confidence, he might do real service to a cause with which he was in fact unacquainted.
"Albert became indignant, and uttered the anathema of a firm and ardent mind, against our enterprise. He foretold that we would fail, because we had mixed too much alloy with the golden chain. He left us, saying, that he would reflect on the things the necessity of which we strove to make him understand, in relation to the terrible necessities of conspiracies, and that he would come to ask for baptism when his poignant doubts were relieved. Alas! we did not know the character of his reflections at Riesenberg. He did not tell us; perhaps when their bitterness was passed, he did not remember them. He passed a year there, in alternate calm and madness, exuberant power and painful decay. He wrote sometimes, without mentioning his sorrows and troubles. He bitterly opposed our political course. He wished us thenceforth not to seek to work in the shade and deceive men, to make them swallow the cup of regeneration. 'Cast aside your black masks,' said he; 'leave your caverns, efface from the front of your temple the wordmystery, which you borrowed from the Roman church, and which ill befits the coming age. Do you not see you are imitators of the Jesuits? No, I cannot toil with you. It is to look for life amid carcases. Show yourself by daylight. Do not lose a precious moment for the organization of your army. Rely on its enthusiasm, on the sympathy of the people, and the outbursts of generous instincts. An army, even, becomes corrupted in repose, and aruse, employed for concealment also deprives us of the power and activity required for the strife. Albert was right in theory, but the time was not come to put it in action. That time, perhaps, is yet far distant.
"You at last came to Riesenberg, and found him in the greatest distress. You know, or rather you do not know, what influence you exerted on him. You made him forget all but yourself—you gave him, as it were, a new life and death.
"When he fancied that all between you and him was over, all his power abandoned him, and he suffered himself to waste away. Until then, I was not aware of the true nature and intensity of his suffering. The correspondent of Marcus said, the Giants' Castle became more and more closed to profane eyes, that Albert never left it, and passed with the majority of persons as a monomaniac; that the poor, nevertheless, loved and blessed him, and that some persons of superior mind having seen him, on their departure did homage to his eloquence, his lofty wisdom and his vast ideas. At last I heard that Supperville had been sent for, and I hurried to Riesenberg, in spite of Marcus's protests. Being prepared to risk all, Marcus seeing me resolved, determined to accompany me. We reached the walls of the castle in the disguise of beggars. For twenty-seven years I had not been seen—Marcus had been away ten. They gave us alms and drove us away. We met a friend and unexpected savior in poor Zdenko. He treated us as brothers, because he knew how dear we were to Albert. We knew how to talk to him in the language that pleased his enthusiasm, and revealed to him the secrets of the mortal grief of his friend. Zdenko was not the only madman by whom our life has been menaced. Oppressed and downcast, he came as we did to the gate of the castle, to ask news of Albert, and, like us, he was repelled with vain words which were most distressing to our anguish. By a strange coincidence with the visions of Albert, Zdenko said he had known me; I had appeared to him in his dreams and ecstasies, and without being able to account for it, abandoned his will fully to me. 'Woman,' said he, 'I do not know your name, but you are the good angel of my Podiebrad. I have often seen him draw your face on paper, and heard him describe your voice, look, and manner, when he was well, when heaven opened before him, and he saw around his bed persons who are, as men say, no more.' Far from opposing Zdenko, I encouraged him; I flattered his illusion, and induced him to receive us in the Cavern of Tears.
"When I saw this underground abode, and learned that my son had lived weeks there, aye, even months, unknown to the whole world, I saw how sad must be his thoughts. I saw a tomb to which Zdenko seemed to pay a kind of worship, and not without great difficulty could I learn its destination. It was the greatest secret of Albert and Zdenko, and their chief mystery. 'Alas!' said the madman, 'there we buried Wanda of Prachalitz, the mother of my Albert. She would not remain in that chapel where they had fastened her down in stone. Her bones trembled and shook, and those (he pointed to the ossuary of the Taborites, near the spring in the cavern) reproached us for not placing hers with them. We went to that sacred tomb, which we brought hither, and every day covered it with flowers and kisses.' Terrified at this circumstance, the consequences of which might lead to the discovery of our secret, Marcus questioned Zdenko, and ascertained that the coffin had been brought hither without being opened. Albert, however, had been sick, and so far astray that he could not remember my being alive, and persisted in treating me as dead. Was not this through a dream of Zdenko? I could not believe my ears. 'Oh! my friend,' said I to Marcus, 'if the light of reason be thus extinguished forever, may God grant him the boon of death!'
"Having thus possessed myself of all Zdenko's secrets, we knew that he could pass through the underground galleries and unknown passages into the Giants' Castle. We followed him one night, and waited at the entrance of the cistern until he had glided into the house. He returned laughing and singing, to tell us that Albert was cured and asleep, and that they had dressed him in his robes and coronet. I fell as if I were stricken by lightning, for I knew that Albert was dead. Thenceforth, I was insensible, and I found myself, when I awoke, in a burning fever. I lay on bear skins and dry leaves in the underground room Albert had inhabited in the Schreckenstein. Zdenko and Marcus watched me alternately. The one said, with an air of pride, that his Podiebrad was cured, and soon would come to see me: the other, pale and sad, observed, 'Perhaps all is not lost; let us not abandon the hope of such a miracle as rescued you from the grave.' I did not understand any longer: I was delirious, and wished to run, cry, and shout. I could not, however, and the desolate Marcus, seeing me in such a state, had neither time nor disposition to attend to anything serious. All his mind and thoughts were occupied by an anxiety which was most terrible. At last, one night, the third of my attack, I became calm, and regained my strength. I tried to collect my ideas, and arose; I was alone in the cave which was dimly lighted by a solitary sepulchral lamp. I wished to go out—where were Marcus and Zdenko? Memory returned; I uttered a cry, which the icy vaults echoed back so lugubriously, that cold perspiration streamed down my brow, which was damp as the dew of the grave. Again I fancied that I was buried alive. What had passed? What was going on? I fell on my knees, and wrung my hands in despair. I called furiously on Albert. At last, I heard slow and irregular steps, as if persons with a burden, approach. A dog barked, and having preceded them, scratched at the door. It was opened, and I saw Zdenko and Marcus bearing the stiff, discolored body of Albert, for to all appearance he was dead. His dog Cynabre followed and licked his hands, which hung loosely by his side. Zdenko sang sadly an improvised song, 'Come, sleep on the bosom of your mother, poor friend, who have been so long without repose. Sleep until dawn, when we will awaken you to see the sun rise.'
"I rushed to my son.
"'He is not dead,' said I. 'O Marcus, you have saved him!—have you not? He is not dead? Will he recover?'
"'Madame,' said he, 'do not flatter yourself,'—and he spake with a strange firmness. 'I know not what may be the result. Take courage, however, whatever may betide. Help me, and forget yourself.'
"I need not tell you what care we took to restore Albert. Thank Heaven there was a stove in the room, at which we warmed him.
"'See,' said I to Marcus, 'his hands are warm.'
"'Marble may be heated,' was his unpromising reply. 'That is not life. His heart is inert as a stone.'
"Terrible hours rolled by in this expectation and despair. Marcus knelt with his ear close to my son's heart. His face betokened sad distress when he found there was not the slightest index of life. Exhausted and trembling, I dared not say one word or ask one question. I examined Marcus's terrible brow. I was at one time afraid to look at him, as I fancied I had read the first sentence.
"Zdenko played with Cynabre in a corner, and continued to sing. He sometimes paused to tell us that we annoyed Albert; that we must let him sleep; that he had seen him so for weeks together; and that he would awaken of himself. Marcus suffered greatly from this assurance, in which he could not confide. I had faith in it, and was inspired by it. The madman had a celestial inspiration, an angelic certainty of the truth. At length I saw an involuntary movement in Marcus's iron face. His corrugated brow distended, his hand trembled, as he prepared himself for a new act of courage. He sighed deeply, withdrew his ear, and placed his hand over my son's heart, which perhaps beat. He tried to speak, but restrained himself, for fear, it may be, of the chimerical joy it would inspire me with, leaned forward again, and suddenly rising and stepping back, fell prostrate, as if he were dying.
"'No more hope?' said I, tearing my hair.
"'Wanda,' said Marcus in a stifled voice, 'your son is alive!'
"Exhausted by the effort of his attention and solicitude, my stoical friend lay overpowered by the side of Zdenko!"
Overcome by the emotion of such recollections, the Countess Wanda, after a brief silence, resumed her story.
"We passed several days in the cavern, and my son recovered strength and activity with wonderful rapidity. Marcus, surprised at discovering the trace of no organic injury, or great change in the vital system, was alarmed at his profound silence and his apparent or real indifference to our transports. Albert had completely lost his memory. Wrapped in deep study, he in vain made silent efforts to understand what was passing around him. I was not so impatient as Marcus to see him regain the poignant recollection of his love, for I knew well that sorrow was the only cause of his disease, and of the catastrophe which had resulted from it. Marcus himself said that the effacing of the past alone would be the means of his regaining strength. His body recovered quickly at the expense of his mind, which was giving way rapidly beneath the melancholy effort of his thoughts.
"'He lives, and certainly will live,' said he; 'but will not his mind be obscured? Let us leave this cavern as soon as possible; air, sunlight, and exercise will doubtless awaken him from his mental slumber. Let us, above all things, abandon the false and impassive life which has killed him: let us leave this family and its society, which crushes his natural impulses. We will take him among persons who will sympathise with him, and in company with them his soul will recover its vigor.'
"Could I hesitate? Wandering leisurely towards evening around the Schreckenstein, where I pretended to ask charity, I learned that Count Christian had relapsed into a kind of dotage. He had not known of his son's return, and the prospect of his father's death would certainly have killed Albert. Was it, then, necessary to restore him to his old aunt, to the insane chaplain and brutal uncle, who had made his life and his mental death so painful and sad?
"'Let us fly with him,' said I to Marcus. 'Let him not witness his father's agony, nor that terrible spectacle of Catholic idolatry which ever surrounds the bed of death. My heart breaks when I think that my husband—who did not understand me, but whose simple virtues I venerate, and whom I have as religiously respected since I left him as I did before—will pass away without exchanging a mutual pardon. Since that must be the case—since the reappearance of myself and my child would be either useless or injurious to him, let us go. Do not let us restore to that sepulchral palace what we have wrested from death, and to whom hope and life now unfold a magnificent career. Ah! let us implicitly obey the impulse which brought us hither. Let us rescue Albert from the prison-house of false duties, created by rank and riches. Those duties to him will always be crimes; and if he persists in discharging them, for the purpose of gratifying the relations whom death and age rapidly claim, he will himself probably be the first to die. I know what I suffered from the slavery of thought, in that mortal and incessant contradiction between the soul and positive life—between principles, instincts, and compulsory habits. I see he has travelled the same path, and imbibed the same poisons. Let us take him away then, and if he choose to contradict us at some future day, can he not do so? If his father's life be prolonged, and if his mental health permit, will it not always be possible for him to return and console the declining years of Count Christian by his presence and his love?'
"'That will be difficult,' said Marcus. 'I see in the future terrible obstacles, if Albert should wish to annul his divorce from society, the world, and his family.'
"'Why should Albert do so? His family will perhaps become extinct, before he regains the use of his memory: and whatever name, honors, or wealth he may attain in the world, I know what he will think as soon as he returns to his senses. Heaven grant that day may borne soon. Our most important task is to place him in such a position that his cure may be possible.'
"We left the cavern by night, as soon as Albert was able to sustain himself. At a short distance from the castle we placed him on horseback, and reached the frontier, which is at this place very near, as you know, and where he found more suitable means of transportation. The numerous affiliations of our order with the masonic fraternity procured for us the means of travelling all through Germany, without being recognised or subjected to the scrutiny of the police. Bohemia, in consequence of the recent events at Prague, was the only country where we were in danger. There the surveillance of the Austrian authorities was very rigid."
"And what became of Zdenko?" asked the young Countess of Rudolstadt.
"Zdenko nearly ruined us by his obstinate refusal to permit us to go, or, at least, to part with Albert, whom he would not suffer to leave him, and would not follow. He persisted in thinking Albert could live nowhere but in the sad Schreckenstein. 'Nowhere else,' said he, 'is my Podiebrad calm. In other places they torment, and will not let him sleep. They seek to make him deny our fathers at Mount Tabor, and induce him to lead a base and disgraceful life. This exasperates him. Leave him here; I will take good care of him, as I have often done. I will not disturb his meditations, and when he wishes to be silent I will walk without making any noise, and keep Cynabre's muzzle within my hands for two whole hours, to keep him from annoying Podiebrad by licking his fingers. When he is weary I will sing him the songs he loves, for he loves my verses, and is the only person who can understand them. Leave him here. I know what suits him better than you, and when you see him again, he will be playing the violin, or planting the cypress branches, which I will cut in the forest, around the grave of his beloved mother. I will feed him well; I know all the cabins, and no one ever refuses bread, milk, or fruits to good old Zdenko. The poor peasants of the Boehmer-wald, though they do not know it, have long fed their noble master, the rich Podiebrad. Albert does not like feasts, where people eat flesh, but prefers a life of innocence and simplicity. He does not wish to see the sun, but prefers the moonbeams, glancing through the woods in savage places where our good friends, the Zingari, camp at night. They are the children of the Lord, and know neither laws nor riches.'
"I listened to Zdenko with attention, because his innocent words revealed to me the details of the life Albert led with him during his frequent absences in the cavern. 'Do not fear,' said he, 'that I shall ever reveal to his enemies the secret of his abode. They are so false and foolish, that they now say, "our child is dead, our friend is dead, and our master is dead." They would not believe he was alive, even if they were to see him. Besides, do I not reply when, they ask me if I have seen Count Albert, "he is certainly dead." As I laughed when I said this, they thought me mad. I spoke thus to mock them, because they think, or seem to think him dead. When the people of the castle pretend to follow, do I not make a thousand windings to throw them out? All the devices of the hare and partridge are known to me. I know, like them, how to hide in a furrow, to disappear under the brush, to make a false track, to jump over a torrent, to hide myself while they pass by, and, like a will-o'-wisp, to lead them astray in the ponds and morasses. They call me Zdenko thefool.I am more knave, though, than any of them. There was never but one girl, a good, sweet girl, who could get the better of Zdenko. She knew the magic words to soothe his wrath. She had talismans to overcome all perils and dangers. Her name was Consuelo.'
"When Zdenko pronounced your name, Albert shuddered lightly, and looked away. He immediately, however, let his head fall on his breast, and his memory was not aroused.
"I tried in vain to soothe this devoted and blind guardian by promising to restore Albert to Schreckenstein, if he would accompany him to the place whither we proposed to take him. I did not succeed however; and when at last, half by persuasion and half by force, we induced him to suffer my son to leave the cavern, he followed us with tears in his eyes, and singing sadly, as far as the mines of Cuttemberg. When he reached this celebrated spot, where Ziska won his great victory over Sigismund, Zdenko recognised the rocks which marked the frontier, for no one had explored all the paths of the country more closely than he had done in his vagabond career. There he paused and said, stamping on the ground, 'Zdenko will never leave the country where his father's bones rest. Not long ago, I was exiled and banished by my Podiebrad, for having menaced the girl he loved, and I passed weeks and months on a foreign soil. I returned afterwards to my dear forests to see Albert sleep, for a voice in a dream whispered to me that his anger had passed. Now, when he does not curse me, you steal him from me. If you do so to take him to Consuelo, I consent. As for leaving my country now, and speaking the tongue of my enemies again, as for giving them my hand, and leaving Schreckenstein deserted and abandoned, I will not. This is too much. The voices, too, in my dreams have forbid this. Zdenko must live and die in the land of the Sclaves. He must live and die singing Sclavic glory and misfortune in the language of his fathers. Adieu! and go. Had not Albert forbade me to shed human blood, you would not thus take him from me. He would curse me, though, if I lifted my hand on you, and I would rather never see than offend him. Do you hear, oh! Podiebrad,' said he, kissing my son's hand, while the latter looked at and heard but did not understand him. 'I obey you and go. When you return you will find the fire kindled, your books in order, your bed made with new leaves, and your mother's tomb strewed with evergreen leaves. If it be in the season of flowers, there will be flowers on the bones of our martyrs near the spring. Adieu, Cynabre.' As he spoke thus with a broken voice, Zdenko rushed over the rocky ledge which inclined towards Bohemia, and disappeared like a stag at dawn.
"I will not describe, dear Consuelo, our anxiety during the first weeks Albert passed with us. Hidden in the house you now inhabit, he returned gradually to the kind of life we sought to awake in him with care and precaution. The first word he spoke was called forth by musical emotion. Marcus understood that Albert's life was knit to his love of you, and resolved not to awaken the memory of that love until he should be fit to inspire in return the same passion. He then inquired minutely after you, and in a short time ascertained the least details of your past and present life. Thanks to the wise organization of our order, and the relations established with other secret societies, a number of neophytes and adepts, whose functions consist in the scrupulous examination of persons and things that interest us, nothing can escape our investigations. The world has no secrets for us. We know how to penetrate the arcana of politics and the intrigues of courts. Your pure life, your blameless character, were not difficult to be seen. The Baron Von Trenck, as soon as he saw that the man you had loved was his friend Albert, spoke kindly of you. The Count of Saint Germain, one of those men who apparently are absent-minded as possible, yet who in fact is most discriminating, this strange visionary, this superior being, who seems to live only in the past, while nothing that is present escapes him, furnished us with the most complete information in relation to you. This was of such a character that henceforth I looked on you as my own child.
"When we were sufficiently well informed to act with certainty we sent for skillful musicians who came beneath the window where we now sit. Albert was where you are, and leaned against the curtain watching the sunset. Marcus held one of his hands and I the other. Amid a symphony composed expressly for the four instruments, in which we had inserted several of the Bohemian airs Albert sings with such religion and enthusiasm, we made them play the hymn to the Virgin with which you once so delighted him—
Consuelo de mi alma.
"At that moment, Albert, who hitherto had exhibited a faint emotion at our old Bohemian songs, threw himself in my arms, and shedding tears, said—'My mother!'
"Marcus put an end to the music, being satisfied with the effect he had produced. He did not wish to push the first experiment too far. Albert had seen and recognised me, and had found power to love. A long time yet passed before his mind recovered its freedom. He had however, no access of fever. When his mental powers were overtasked, he relapsed into melancholy silence. His face, though, insensibly assumed a less sad expression, and by degrees we combatted this taciturn disposition. We were at last delighted to see this demand for intellectual repose disappear, and he continued to think, except at his regular hours for sleep, when he was quiet as other men are. Albert regained a consciousness of life and love for you and me, for charity and enthusiasm towards his fellows, and for virtue, faith and the duty of winning its triumphs. He continued to love you without bitterness and without regret for all that he had suffered. Notwithstanding, however, his efforts to reassure us, and to exhibit his courage and self-denial, we saw that his passion had lost nothing of its intensity. He had merely acquired more moral power and strength to bear it. We did not seek to oppose him. Far otherwise. Marcus and I strove to endow him with hope, and we resolved to inform you of the existence of him for whom you were mourning, if not in your dress, in your heart. Albert, with generous resignation, forbade us to do so, refraining from all disposition to make a sacrifice of your happiness to your sense of duty.
"His health seemed completely restored, and others than I aided him to combat his unfortunate passion. Marcus and some of the chiefs of our order initiated him in the mysteries of our enterprise. He experienced a serious and melancholy joy in those daring hopes, and, above all, in the long philosophical discussions, in which, if he did not meet with entire similarity of opinions between him and his noble friends, he at least felt himself in contact with every profound and ardent idea of truth. This aspiration towards the ideal, long repressed and restrained by the narrow terrors of his family, had, at last, free room to expand, and this expansion, seconded by noble sympathies, excited even by frank and genial contradiction, was the vital air in which he could breathe and act, though a victim to secret suffering. The mind of Albert is essentially metaphysical: nothing smiles on him in the frivolous life where egotism seeks its food. He is born for the contemplation of high truths and the exercise of the most austere virtues. At the same time, by a perfection of moral beauty which is rare among men, he is gifted with a soul essentially tender and affectionate. Charity is not enough, he must love; and this passion extends to all, though he feels the necessity of concentrating it on some individuals. In devotion he is a fanatic, yet his virtue is not savage. Love intoxicates, friendship sways him, and his life is a fruitful and inexhaustible field, divided between the abstract being he reveres passionately, under the name of humanity, and the persons he loves. In fine, his sublime heart is a hearth of love; all noble passions exist there without rivalry, and if God could be represented under a finite and perishable form, I would dare assert that the soul of my son is an image of that universal soul we call the divinity.
"On that account, a weak human being, infinite in its inspiration limited and without resources, he had been unable to live with his parents. Had he not loved them ardently, he would have been able to live apart from them, healthy and calm, differing from them, but indulging their harmless blindness. This would, however, have required a certain coldness, of which he was incapable as I. He could not live isolated in his mind and heart. He had besought their aid, and appealed in despair for a community of ideas between him and the beings who were so dear to him. Therefore was it that, shut up in the iron wall of their Catholic obstinacy, their social prejudices and their hatred to a religion of equality, he had broken to pieces as he sighed on their bosoms; he had dried up like a plant without dew, calling on heaven for rain to endow him with an existence like those he loved. Weary of suffering alone, loving alone, weeping and praying alone, he thought he regained life in you; and when you participated in his ideas, he was calm and reasonable. Yet you did not reciprocate his sentiments, and your separation could not but plunge him into an isolation both deeper and more insurmountable. His faith was perpetually denied and contradicted, and became a torture too great for human power. Vertigo took possession of him: unable to mingle the sublime essence of his own soul in others like it, he died.
"So soon as he found hearts capable of comprehending and seconding him, we were amazed at his moderation in discussion, his tolerance, confidence, and modesty. We had apprehended, from the past, that he would be stern, self-willed, and exhibit the strong manner of talking, which, though proper enough in a mind convinced and enthusiastic, would be dangerous to his progress and detrimental to such an enterprise as ours. He surprised us by his candor, and charmed us by his behavior. He who made us better by speaking and talking to us, persuaded himself that he received what he really gave us. He soon became the object of boundless veneration, and you must not be surprised that so many persons toiled for your rescue, for his happiness had become the common object of all who had approached him, though merely for an instant."
"The cruel destiny of our race, however, was not fulfilled. Albert was yet to suffer, his heart was yet to bleed for his family, which was doomed to crush him, while it was innocent of his sufferings. As soon as he was strong enough to hear the news, we had not concealed from him the death of his father, which took place soon after his own, (I must use this phrase to describe that strange event.) Albert had wept for his father with deep regret: and the certainty that he had not left life to enter on the nonentity of the paradise or the hell of the Catholic, inspired him with the hope of a better and more ample life for one who had been so pure and worthy of reward. He was much more grieved at the state in which his relatives, Baron Frederick and Wenceslawa, were. He blamed himself for being happy away from them, and resolved to visit them and inform them of the secret of his cure and wonderful resurrection, and to make them as happy as possible. He was not aware of the disappearance of Amelia, which happened while he was ill, and it had been carefully hidden from him, as likely to make him unhappy. We had not thought it right to inform him of it, for we were unable to shelter my niece from the shame of her deplorable error. When about to seize her seducer, we were anticipated by the Saxon Rudolstadts. They had caused Amelia to be arrested in Prussia, where she expected a refuge, and had placed her in the power of Frederick, who did them the honor to shut up the poor girl at Spandau. She passed almost a year in strict confinement, seeing no one, and having reason to think herself happy at her error being concealed by the jailer monarch."
"Madame," said Consuelo, "is she there yet?"
"We are about to release her. Albert and Leverani could not rescue her when they did you, for she was much more closely watched; her imprudent attempts to escape, her revolts and temper, having aggravated her confinement. We have other means than those which won your safety. Our adepts are everywhere, and some even seek for courtly favor, to be able to serve us thus! We have obtained for Amelia the patronage of the young Margravine of Bareith, sister of the King of Prussia, who has requested and obtained her liberty, promising to take charge of her and be responsible for her conduct in future. In a few days the young baroness will be under the protection of the Princess Wilhelmina, whose heart is as good as her tongue is censorious, and who will be as kind to her as she was to the Princess Culmbach, another unfortunate creature, withered in the eyes of the world as Amelia was, and who like her was a victim of royal prisons.
"Albert was ignorant, then, of the misfortune of his cousin, when he resolved to visit his uncle and aunt at the Giants' Castle. He could not account for the inertia of Baron Frederick, who was able to live, to hunt, and drink, after so many and so great misfortunes, and for the passive character of Wenceslawa, who, while she sought to discover Amelia, took care not to give anyéclâtto what had happened. We opposed Albert's plan as much as possible, but he persisted in it, unknown to us. He set out one night, leaving us a letter, which promised us a prompt return. His absence was not long, in fact, but it was pregnant with sorrows.
"In disguise he entered Bohemia, and found Zdenko alone in the cavern of the Schreckenstein. He wished thence to write to his kindred and prepare them for the excitement of his return. He was aware that Amelia was the most courageous, as well as the most frivolous of the family, and to her he wished to send his first letter. As he wrote it, and while Zdenko was out on the mountain, he heard the report of a gun, and a painful cry of agony. He rushed out, and the first thing he saw was Zdenko, bearing Cynabre in his arms. To hurry to his poor old dog, without thinking of concealing his face, was the first act of Albert. As he bore the poor animal, with a death wound, towards the place known as the 'Monk's Cave,' he saw an old huntsman hurrying towards him, rapidly as age would permit, to seize his prey. This was Baron Frederick, who, while hunting at the dawn of day, had taken Cynabre for some wild beast. He had seen him through the undergrowth, and as his eye and hand were yet sure, had wounded him. He had put two balls in his side. All at once he saw Albert, and fancying that a spectre stood before him, paused in terror. No longer fearing a real danger, he shrank back to the very verge of a mountain path, and fell into a ravine, where he was crushed by the rocks. He died immediately, at the very place where for centuries had stood the fatal oak of Schreckenstein, known as theHussite, in other days the witness and accomplice of terrible catastrophes.
"Albert saw the baron fall, and left Zdenko, to descend into the ravine. He then perceived the servants of his uncle, seeking to lift him up, and filling the air with lamentations, for he gave no sign of life. Albert hearing these words—'Our poor master is dead; alas! what will our lady the canoness say?' forgot himself, and shouted and cried aloud.
"As soon as they saw him, a panic took possession of the credulous servants. They abandoned the body of their master, and were about to fly, when old Hans, the most superstitious of all, bade them halt, and said, making the sign of the cross, 'My friends, it is not our Albert that stands before us; it is the spirit of the Schreckenstein, who has taken his form to destroy us all if we be cowards. I saw him distinctly, and he it was who made our master the baron fall. He would carry his body away and devour it, for he is a vampire. Be brave, my children; be brave. They say the devil is a coward. I shall shoot at him in the mean time. Father,' (he spoke to the chaplain) 'go over the exorcism.' As he spoke Hans made the sign of the cross again and again, lifted up his gun, and fired at Albert, while the other servants crowded around the baron's body. Fortunately Hans was too much terrified and too much afraid to fire accurately. He acted in a kind of delirium. The ball hissed by Albert's head, but Hans was the best shot in all the country, and had he been cool would infallibly have killed my son. Albert stood irresolute. 'Be brave, lads: be brave.' said Hans, loading his gun. 'Fire at once. You will not kill him, for he is ball-proof, but you will make him retreat, and we will be able to carry away the Baron Frederick's body.'
"Albert, seeing all the guns directed at him, rushed into the thicket, and unseen descended the declivity of the mountain, and soon by personal observation became assured of the reality of the dreadful scene. The crushed and broken body of his unfortunate uncle lay on the bloody stones. His skull was crushed, and old Hans, in the most lamentable tone, said to the crowd—'Gather up his brains, and leave nothing on the rocks, for the vampire's dog will come to lap them up. Yes, yes, there was a dog—a dog I would have sworn was Cynabre.'
"'He, though, disappeared after Count Albert's death,' said another, 'and no one has seen him since. He died in some corner or other, and the dog we saw is a shadow, as also was the vampire that assumed Count Albert's form. Horrible! It will always be before my eyes. Lord God have mercy on us, and the soul of the baron, who died unconfessed, in consequence of the evil spirit's malice.'
"'Alas! I told him some misfortune would befall him,' said Hans, as he gathered up the shreds of the baron's garments in his hands, which were stained with the nobleman's blood. 'He would hunt in this thrice-accursed place. He thought, because no one ever came hither, all the game of the forest crowded into it. God knows there never was any other game here than what, when I was a lad, I saw hanging from the branches of that oak. Accursed Hussite! tree of perdition. The fire of heaven has devoured it, but while one root remains in the soil, the Hussites will come hither to avenge themselves on the Catholics. Well, get the litter ready, and let us go, for here we are not safe. Ah! Madame Canoness! poor mistress! what will become of you? Who will dare first to appear before you, and say as we used to—"The baron has come back from hunting." Will she say—"Have dinner at once!" Dinner!—a long time will pass before anyone in the castle will be hungry. Well, this family is too unhappy. I can account for it, though.'
"While the body of the baron was placed on a litter, Hans, annoyed by questions, replied, and, as he did so, he shook his head—'In this family all were pious and died like Christians, until the day when the Countess Wanda, on whom may God have mercy, died unconfessed. Count Albert did not die in a state of grace, and his worthy father suffered for it. He died unconscious, and here is another who has passed away without the sacraments. I bet, not even the canoness will have time to prepare herself. Fortunately for this holy family, she is always in a state of grace.'
"Albert heard every word of all this sad conversation, the expression of true grief in common-place words, and a terrible reflection of the fanatical horror which both of us excited at Riesenberg. In stupor and amazement, he saw the sadcortègedefile in the distance down the paths of the ravine, and did not dare to follow it, though he was aware that properly he should have been the first to bear the sad news to his old aunt and aid her in her mortal grief. He was sure, though, had he done so, his apparition would either have killed or crazed her. He therefore withdrew in despair to the cavern, where Zdenko, who was ignorant of the most unfortunate accident of the day, was busy in washing Cynabre's wound. It was too late, however. Cynabre, when he saw his master return, uttered a cry of pain; in spite of his broken ribs, he crawled up to him, and died at his feet, after receiving his last caresses. Four days afterwards Albert rejoined us; he was pale and overcome by this last shock. He remained many days sad and overcome with these new sufferings. At last, his tears fell on his bosom. 'I am accursed among men,' said he, 'and it seems that God seeks to exclude me from the world, where I should have loved no one. I cannot return to it, without being the vehicle of terror, death, or madness. All is over. I will never be able again to see those who took care of my childhood. These ideas, in relation to the eternal separation of the body and soul, are so absolute and terrible, that they would prefer to think me chained forever to the tomb, to seeing my unfortunate countenance. This is a strange and terrible phase of life. The dead become objects of hatred to those who loved them most; and if their shadows appear, they seem sent forth by hell, instead of being angels from heaven. My poor uncle! my noble father! you to me seemed heretical, as I did to you; yet did you appear, were I fortunate enough to see your forms as death seized them, I would welcome them on my knees, I would think they came from the bosom of God, where souls areretemperedand bodies formed anew. I would utter no horrible formula of dismissal and malediction, no impious exorcisms of fear and aversion. I would call on you, I would gaze on you with love, and retain you with me as things sent to aid me. Oh! mother! all is over. I must to them be dead whether they be living or dead to me.'
"Albert had not left the country until he was assured the canoness had survived this last shock of misfortune. This old woman, as ill-restrained as I am, lives by sorrow alone. Venerated for her convictions and her sorrows, she counts, resignedly, the bitter days God yet requires her to live. In her sorrow, however, she yet maintains a degree of pride which has survived all her affections. She said not long ago, to a person who wrote to us: 'If we did not fear death from a sense of duty, we would yet have to do so for propriety's sake.' This remark explains all the character of Wenceslawa.
"Thenceforth Albert abandoned all idea of leaving us, and his courage seemed to increase at every trial. He seemed even to have overcome his love, and plunged into philosophy and religion, and was buried in ethics and revolutionary action. He gave himself up to serious labors; and his vast mind in this manner assumed a development which was as serene and magnificent as it had been feverish and fitful when away from us. This strange man, whose delirium had terrified Catholics, became a light of wisdom to beings of a superior order. He was initiated into the most mysterious secrets of the Invisibles, and assumed a rank among the chiefs of the new church. He gave them advice, which they received with love and gratitude. The reforms he proposed were consented to, and in the practice of a militant creed he regained hope and a serenity of soul which makes heroes and martyrs.
"We thought he had overcome his love of you, so careful was he to conceal his struggles and sufferings. One day, however, the correspondence of our adepts, which it was impossible to conceal, brought to our sanctuary a sad piece of information. In spite of the doubt surrounding the report, at Berlin you were looked upon as the king's mistress, and appearances did not contradict the supposition. Albert said nothing, and became pale.
"'My beloved mother,' said he, after being silent a few moments, 'on this occasion you will suffer me to leave you, without fear. My love calls me to Berlin: my place is by the side of her who has accepted my love, and whom I love. I pretend to no right over her. If she be intoxicated by the sad honor attributed to her, I will use no authority to make her renounce it; but if she be, as I suspect, surrounded by snares and dangers, I will save her.'
"'Pause, Albert,' said I, 'and dread the influence of that fatal passion which has already injured you so deeply. The evil which will result from it is beyond your influence. I see that now you exist merely in the power of your virtue and your love. If this love perish, will virtue suffice?'
"'And why should it perish?' said he, enthusiastically. 'Do you think she has ceased to be worthy of me?'
"'If she be, Albert, what would you do?'
"With a smile on his pale lips, and a proud glance, such as were always enkindled by his sad and enthusiastic ideas—
"'If so, I would continue to love her; for to me the past is not a dream that is effaced, and you know I have often so confounded it with the present as to be unable to distinguish it. So would I do again. I would love that angelic face, that poetic soul by which my life was so suddenly enlightened and warmed. I would not believe that the past is behind me, but would keep its burning light within my bosom. The fallen angel would yet inspire me with so much tenderness and love, that my life would be devoted to consoling her and sheltering her from the contempt of a cruel world.'
"Albert went to Berlin with many of his friends, and made a pretext to the Princess Amelia, his protector, of talking to her about Trenck, who was then a prisoner at Glatz, for a masonic business which he was engaged in. You saw him preside at a lodge at the Rose Cross; and he did not know that Cagliostro, in spite of our efforts, had learned his secrets and made use of them as a means of disturbing your reason. For the mere fact of having suffered any person uninitiated even to glance at a masonic mystery, Cagliostro deserved to be expelled as a trickster. It was not known, however, for a long time; and you must be aware yourself of the terror he displayed while conducting you to the temple. The penalty due to this kind of treason is severely administered by the adepts; and the magician, by making the mysteries of the order subject to his pretended miracles, perhaps risked his life, as he certainly did his necromantic reputation, for he would without doubt have been unmasked had he been discovered.
"During his short and mysterious stay at Berlin, Albert ascertained enough of your conduct and ideas to be at ease about you. Though you knew it not, he watched you closely, and returned apparently calm, but more in love with you than ever.
"During several months he travelled in foreign lands, and by his activity served our cause well. Having been informed that several plotters, perhaps spies of the King of Prussia, were attempting to set on foot at Berlin a conspiracy which endangered masonry, and perhaps would be fatal to Prince Henry and the Abbess of Quedlimburg, Albert hurried thither to warn the Prince and Princess of the absurdity of such an attempt, and to put them on their guard against the plot which seemed imminent. Then you saw him, and though terrified at his apparition, showed so much courage, and spoke to his friends with so much devotion and respect for his memory, that the hope of being loved by you revived. He then determined that you should be told the truth by means of a system of mysterious revelations. He has often been near you, concealed even in your room during your stormy conversations with the King, though you were not aware of it. In the meantime the conspirators became angry at the obstacles he put in the way of their mad or guilty design. Frederick II. had suspicions. The appearance ofla balayeuse, the spectre all conspirators parade in the palace gallery, aroused his vigilance. The creation of a masonic lodge, at the head of which Prince Henry placed himself, and which professed views different from that over which the King presided, appeared a definite revolt. It may be added, that the creation of this new lodge was a maladroit mask of certain conspirators, or perhaps an attempt to compromise certain illustrious personages. Fortunately they rescued themselves; and the King, apparently enraged at the arrest of none but a few obscure criminals, yet really delighted at not having to punish his own family, resolved to make an example. My son, the most innocent of all, was arrested and sent to Spandau about the time that you, equally innocent, were. You both refused to save yourselves at the expense of others, and atoned for others' errors. You passed several months in prison not far from Albert's cell, and heard his violin, as he heard your voice. He had prompt and speedy means of escape, but he would not use them until he was sure of your safety. The key of gold is more powerful than all the bolts of a royal prison; and the Prussian jailers, the majority of whom are discontented soldiers, or officers in disgrace, are easily to be corrupted. Albert escaped when you did, but you did not see him; and for reasons you will hear at another time, Leverani was ordered to bring you hither. Now you know the rest. Albert loves you more than ever; he loves you far better than he loves himself, and would be yet more distressed if you were happy with another, than he would be if you should not return his love. The moral and philosophical laws under which you have placed yourselves, the religious authority you recognise, renders your decision perfectly voluntary. Choose then, my daughter, but remember that Albert's mother, on her knees, begs you not to injure the sublime candor of her son, by making a sacrifice which will embitter his life. Your desertion will make him suffer, but your pity, without your love, will kill him. The time is come for you to decide, and I cannot be ignorant of your decision. Go into your room, where you will find two different dresses: the one you select will determine his fate."
"And which will signify my wish for a divorce?" said Consuelo trembling.
"I was ordered to tell you, but will not do so. I wish to know if you will guess."
The Countess Wanda having thus spoken, clasped Consuelo to her heart and left the room.
The two robes, which the neophyte found in her room, were a brilliant wedding dress, and a mourning garb with all the tokens of widowhood. She hesitated for a short time. Her resolution as to the choice of a husband was taken; but which of the two dresses would exactly exhibit her intention? After a short time she put on the white dress, the veil and flowers of a bride. Thetout ensemblewas as elegant as possible. Consuelo was soon ready; but when she looked at the terrible sentences on the mirror, she could not smile as she used to. Her face was exceedingly pale, and terror was in her heart. Let her make either choice, she was aware she would be distressed and terrified. She felt she must crush one heart, and her own felt in advance all the terror of the wound she was about to inflict. She saw that her cheeks and lips were as pale as her veil and wreath of orange flowers. She feared to expose both Albert and Leverani to violent suffering, and felt tempted to use rouge, but she at once abandoned the idea. She said, "If the countenance deceives, my heart may also."
She knelt by her bedside, and hiding her face in the coverings, was absorbed in meditation until the clock struckmidnight. She arose at once, and saw an Invisible, with a black mask, behind her. I do not know what instinct made her think this was Marcus. She was not mistaken; yet he did not make himself known to her, but said, in a gentle and mild voice, "Madame, all is ready: will you put on this cloak and follow me?" Consuelo accompanied the Invisible to the place where the rivulet lost itself beneath the green arch of the park. There she found a gondola, open and black, like those of Venice, and in the gigantic oarsman at the bow she recognised Karl, who, when he saw her, made the sign of the cross. This was his way of exhibiting the greatest imaginable joy.
"Can I speak to him?" asked Consuelo of her guide.
"You may speak a few words aloud."
"Dear Karl, my liberator and friend," said Consuelo, excited at seeing a well-known face, after so long a seclusion amid mysterious beings, "may I hope that nothing interferes with your pleasure at seeing me again?"
"Nothing, signora," said Karl, calmly, "nothing but the memory of her who no longer belongs to the world, yet whom I think I always see by you. Courage and content, my dear mistress, become us. We are now just as we were when we escaped from Spandau."
"This, too, brother, is a day of delivery. Oh! thanks to the vigor and skill with which you are endowed, and which equal the prudence of your speech and the power of your mind."
"This, madame," said he to Consuelo, "is like a flight. The chief liberator, though, is not the same."
As he spoke Marcus gave her his hand, to assist her in reaching a bench, covered with cushions. He felt that it trembled slightly at the recollection of Leverani, and begged her to cover her face for but a few moments. Consuelo did so, and the gondola, wafted on by the robust arm of the deserter, slid silently over the dark and silent stream.
After an hour, the lapse of which was scarcely appreciated by the pensive Consuelo, she heard the sound of instruments, and the boat slackened its speed, without absolutely stopping, from time to time touching the shore. The hood fell slowly off, and the neophyte thought she passed from one dream to another, as she looked on the fairy scene that opened before her. The boat passed along a flowery bank, strewn with flowers and fresh grass. The water of the rivulet was collected in a large basin, as it were, and reflected the colonnades of lights which whirled around like fiery serpents, or burst into myriads of sparks on the slow and gentle wake of the gondola. Charming music floated through the air, and seemed to pass over perfumed roses and jessamines.
When the eyes of Consuelo had become accustomed to this sudden clearness, she was able to fix them on the brilliant façade of a palace, which arose at a short distance, and which reflected in the mirror of the basin with magical splendor. In this elegant edifice, which was painted on the starry sky, Consuelo saw through the open windows men and women, clad in embroidery, diamonds, gold, and pearls, moving slowly to and fro, and uniting with the general aspect of entertainments of that day something effeminate and fantastic. This princely festival, united with the effect of a warm night, which flung its beauty and perfume even amid the splendid halls, filled Consuelo with eager motion and a species of intoxication. She, a child of the people, but a queen of patrician amusements, could not witness a spectacle of this kind, after so long a period of solitude and sombre reveries, without experiencing a kind of enthusiasm, anecessity to sing, a strange agitation as she drew near the public. She then stood up in the boat, which gradually approached the castle. Suddenly, excited by that chorus of Handel, in which he sings "the glory of Jehovah, the conqueror of Judea," she forgot all else, and joined that enthusiastic chorus with her voice.
A new shock of the gondola, which, as it passed along the banks of the stream, sometimes struck a branch or a tuft of grass, made her tremble. Forced to take hold of the first hand which was stretched forth to sustain her, she became aware that there was a fourth person in the boat, a masked Invisible, who certainly was not there when she entered.
A vast gray cloak, with long folds, put on in a peculiar manner, and an indescribable something in the mask, through which the features seemed to speak—more than all, however, a pressure of the hand, apparently unwilling to let go her own, told Consuelo that the man she loved, the Chevalier Leverani, as he had appeared to her for the first time on the lake around Spandau, stood by her. Then the music, the illumination, the enchanted palace, the intoxication of the festival, and even the approach of the solemn moment which was to decide her fate—all but the present emotion was effaced from Consuelo's mind. Agitated and overcome by a superhuman power, she sank quivering on the cushions by Leverani's side. The other stranger, Marcus, was at the bow, and turned his back to them. Fasting, the story of the Countess Wanda, the expectation of a terribledénoûement, the surprise of the festival, had crushed all Consuelo's power. She was now aware of nothing but that the hand of Leverani clasped her own, that his arm encircled her form, as if to keep her from leaving, and of the divine ecstacy which the presence of one so well beloved diffuses through the mind. Consuelo remained for a few minutes in this situation, no longer seeing the sparkling palace, which had again been lost in the night, feeling nothing but the burning breath of her lover, and the beatings of her own heart.
"Madame," said Marcus, turning suddenly towards her, "do you not know the air now sung? and will you not pause to hear that magnificent tenor?"
"Whatsoever be the air, whatsoever be the voice," said Consuelo, "let us pause or continue as you please."
The bark was almost at the palace. Forms might be seen in the embrasures of the windows, and even those in the depths of the rooms. They seemed no longer spectres floating in a dream, but real personages; nobles, ladies, servants, artists, and many who were not unknown to Consuelo. She made no effort of memory, however, to recall their names, nor the palaces and the theatres where she had seen them. To her, the world had, all at once, become insignificant as a magic lantern, and as completely devoid of interest. The only being in the universe who seemed alive was the one who furtively clasped her hand amid the folds of her dress.
"Do you not know that magnificent voice," said Marcus again, "which now sings a Venetian air?" He was surprised at her total want of emotion. He came near her, and sat by her side to ask the question.
"I beg your pardon," said Consuelo, who had made an effort to hear him; "I did not understand you. I know the air and voice. I composed the first long ago. It is not only bad, but badly sung."
"What, then, is the name of the singer to whom you are so severe? I think him admirable."
"Ah! you have not lost it?" said Consuelo, in a low tone to Leverani. This remark was called forth by his pressing against the palm of her hand the little filagree cross, which, for the first time in her life, she parted with during her escape from Spandau.
"You do not know the name of that singer?" said Marcus, carefully watching Consuelo's countenance.
"Excuse me, sir," said she, rather impatiently, "his name is Anzoleto. Ah! that is a bad G; he has lost that note."
"Do you not wish to see his face? You are perhaps mistaken. You can see him distinctly from here: at least, I do. He is a very handsome man."
"Why should I see him?" said Consuelo, with some ill temper. "I am sure he is unchanged."
Marcus took her hand gently, and Leverani seconding him, induced her to stand up and look through the open window. Consuelo would possibly have resisted either, but yielded to both. She glanced at the stage, the handsome Venetian who was at that time the object of attraction to a hundred female eyes, languishing, ardent, and burning for him. "He has got fat," said Consuelo, sitting down and avoiding the fingers of Leverani, who wished to regain possession of the little cross which she had again recovered.
"Is that the only recollection you bestow on an old friend?" said Marcus, who continued to watch her with a lynx's eyes.
"He is but a fellow artist," said Consuelo. "Such are not always friends."
"Would you not like to speak to him? We may go into the palace and send for him."
"If it be atest," said she, with some malice, for she began to observe how determined Marcus was, "I am ready, and will obey you. If, however, you wish to oblige me, let us have done with the affair."
"Must I stop here, brother?" said Karl, making a military salute with his oar.
"On, brother, fast," said Marcus; and in a few moments the boat passed over the basin, and lost itself in the undergrowth. The obscurity became intense: the torch in the gondola alone shed its light on the foliage. From time to time, amid the thicket, the sparkling of the lights in the palace were visible. The sounds of the orchestra died away. The bark, as it skirted along the bank, covered the oars with flowers, and the dark cloak of Consuelo was covered with their perfumed petals. She began to look into her own heart, and to combat the ineffable inffuence of passion and right. She had withdrawn her hand from Leverani, and her heart began to break as the veil or intoxication shrank before the light of reason and reflection.
"Hear you, madam," said Marcus, "do you not hear the applause of the audience? Yes; there are exclamations and clapping of hands. They are delighted: Anzoleto has been very successful at the palace."
"They know nothing about it," said Consuelo, taking a magnolia flower which Leverani had gathered in the passage, and thrown at her feet. She clasped this flower convulsively in her hands and hid it in her bosom, as the last relic of a passion about to be crushed or sanctified forever.
The gondola stopped finally at the outlet from the gardens and the park. The place was picturesque, and the stream lost itself amid antique rocks, and was no longer navigable. Consuelo had a very short time to consider the grand, moonlighted landscape. She was yet in the vast area of the palace grounds; but art here had only striven to preserve nature in its primitive beauty—the old trees, strewn by chance in the dark glades, the happy accidents of the landscape, the rugged hills, the unequal cascades, the herds of bounding and timid stags.
A new person now arrested Consuelo's attention: this was Gottlieb, who sat idly on a sedan chair, in the attitude of calm and reverie. He trembled as he recognised his prison friend; but, at a sign from Marcus, did not speak.
"You then forbid the poor child to shake hands with me?" said Consuelo, in a half whisper to her guide.
"When you have been initiated, you will be free in all your actions," said he. "Now be satisfied with seeing how much Gottlieb's health has been improved and how his physical power has been revived."
"Can I not, at least, know," said the neophyte, "whether he suffered persecution on my account, after my escape from Spandau? Excuse my impatience. This idea has never ceased to torment me, until the day when I saw him on the grounds of the house I live in."
"He has really suffered," said Marcus, "yet not for a long time. As soon as he knew you to be rescued, he boasted of having contributed to it; and his somnambulist revelations had nearly proved fatal to some of us. They wished to confine him in a madhouse, as much to punish him as to prevent him from aiding other prisoners to escape. He then fled; and as we had our eye upon him, he was brought hither, where we have attended both to his body and mind. We will return him to his country and his family when we have given him power, and prudence necessary to enable him to toil in our task, which now has become his own, for he is one of our purest and most useful adepts. The chair, however, is ready, madame: will you get into it? I will not leave you, though I confide you to the faithful arms of Karl and Gottlieb."
Consuelo sat quietly in the sedan, which was closed on every side, and which received air only from a few openings in the top. She saw, then, nothing that passed around her. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of the stars, and therefore thought she was in the open air. At other times she saw the transparent medium intercepted; she knew not whether by trees or by solid edifices. The persons who bore her sedan walked rapidly, and in the most profound silence. She sometimes attempted to discover, as their footsteps sounded on the sand, whether three or four persons accompanied her. Often she fancied that she discovered the step of Leverani on the right of the chair; this, however, might be an illusion, which she sought to avoid thinking of.
When the sedan paused, Consuelo could not refrain from a sentiment of terror, when she saw herself under the gateway of an old feudal mansion. The moon shed a full light on the court, which was surrounded with crumbling ruins, and filled with persons clad in white, who went and came, some alone and some clinging together, like fitful spectres. This dark arcade exhibited a blue, transparent fantastic picture. The wandering and silent shadows, speaking in a low tone, their noiseless motion over the grass, the appearance of the ruins, which Consuelo recognised as those she had seen before, and where she had seen Albert, made such an impression on her that she felt an almost superstitious awe. She looked instinctively for Leverani, who was with Marcus; but the darkness was so great that she could not distinguish which of the two offered her his hand. On this occasion her heart chilled with a sudden sadness, an indescribable fear, which rendered her almost senseless.
Her hood was so arranged, and her cloak so put on, that she could see every one without being recognised. Some one told her in a low voice not to speak a single word, no matter what she might see. She was then taken to the extremity of the court, where a strange spectacle met her glance.
A bell with a faint and melancholy sound collected the spectres in the round chapel, where Consuelo had at one time sought a shelter from the tempest. This chapel was now lighted with tapers, arranged in systematic order. The altar seemed to have been, recently built, was covered with a pall, and strewn with strange symbols. The emblems of Christianity were mingled with those of Judaism, Egyptian relics, and cabalistic tokens. In the centre of the choir, the area of which had been reconstructed with balustrades and symbolic columns, was seen a coffin encircled by tapers and covered with cross bones, surmounted by a death's head, in which burned a blood-colored light. Near to this cenotaph a young man was led. Consuelo could not see his features, as a largebandeaucovered half of his face. He seemed crushed by fatigue and emotion, and he had one arm and one leg bare. His arms were tied behind his back, his white robe was spotted with blood, and a ligature on his arm seemed to indicate that he had been bled. Two shadows with burning torches hovered around him, and on his breast were showers of sparks and clouds of smoke. Then there began, between him and those who presided over the ceremony, and who bore various unique insignia, a strange dialogue, which put Consuelo in mind of those Cagliostro had made her listen to at Berlin, between Albert and various unknown persons. Then spectres, armed with swords, whom she heard called theterrible brothersplaced the candidate on the floor, and, putting the points of their swords on his heart, while many others clashed their weapons, began an angry contest; some pretending to prevent the admission of a new brother, treating him as perverse, unworthy, and a traitor; while others pretended to fight for him, in the name of truth and right. This strange scene had the effect of a painful dream on Consuelo. This contest, these menaces, this magic worship, the sobs of the young men as they hung around the coffin, were so well feigned, that a spectator who had not been initiated would have been terrified. When the sponsors of the candidate had triumphed in the argument and the combat, he was lifted up and a dagger placed in his hand. He was ordered to advance and strike at any one who should oppose his entry into the temple.