"I know that you claim to be able to recall all your anterior life, and Albert, also, had that unfortunate impression. Thank God, I never suspected his sincerity, but this faith was so linked to a kind of mad exaltation, that I never believed in the reality of this exceptional, and perhaps inadmissible power. Excuse me from listening to your strange fancies on this matter. I know that many people, excited by frivolous curiosities, would now wish to be in my place, and would receive, with a smile of encouragement and feigned credulity, the wonderful stories you tell so admirably. I cannot act, except when it is my duty, and am not amused at what you call your reveries. They recall to my mind those which terrified and alarmed me so much in the Count of Rudolstadt. Keep them for persons who participate in them. On no account would I deceive you by pretending to believe; even if those reveries recalled no sorrow, I would not laugh at you. Be pleased, then, to answer my questions, without seeking to lead my judgment astray by words of vague and indefinite meaning. To assist you in becoming frank, I will tell you that I am aware you have vague and mysterious views about me. You are to initiate me in I know not what fearful secret, and persons of high rank expect you to impart to me the first principles of I know not what occult science."
"Persons of high rank, countess, sometimes make great mistakes," said St. Germain, with great calmness. "I thank you for the frankness with which you have spoken to me, and will not touch on matters which you will not understand. I will only say, then, there is an occult science in which I take an interest, and in which I am aided by superior lights. There is nothing supernatural in it, for it is purely and simply that of the human heart—or, if you like the term better—a deeper acquaintance with human life in the most secret springs of its action and resources. To prove to you that I am not a vain boaster, I will tell you what has passed in your life, since you left Count Rudolstadt; that is, if you will permit me?"
"I do—for on that point I am sure you cannot deceive me."
"Well, you love, for the first time in your life; you love completely and truly. Well, the person you thus love with tears of repentance—for you did not love him a year ago—this person, the absence of whom is bitter to you, and whose disappearance has discolored your life and disenchanted your future, is not Baron Von Trenck, for whom you entertained no feeling but gratitude and great sympathy; neither is it Joseph Haydn, who is but a young brother in Apollo; nor is it King Frederick, who both frightens and terrifies you; it is not the handsome Anzoleto, whom you can no longer esteem—but the one you saw on the bed of death, with all the ornaments which the pride of nobles place even on the tomb of the dead—Albert of Rudolstadt."
Consuelo for an instant was astonished at this revelation of her secret thoughts, by a man whom she did not know. Remembering that she had unveiled her life, and exposed her most utter secrets on the previous night to the Princess Amelia, and knowing from what Prince Henry had said, that the princess had mysterious affiliation with that society, a principal member of which the Count de St. Germain was, she ceased to be surprised, and told the latter that there was nothing strange in his being acquainted with matters she had owned to an indiscreet friend.
"You speak of the Abbess of Quedlimburg. Well, will you believe in my word of honor?" said the count.
"I have no reason to doubt it," said Porporina.
"I pledge it to you," said the count, "that the princess has not spoken a word to me of you, for I have not been able to exchange a word either with her or with Madame Von Kleist."
"Yet, sir, you have communicated with her at least indirectly."
"As far as I am concerned, my communication has gone no farther than sending Trenck's letters, and receiving hers by a third party. You see her confidence in me does not go very far, since she thinks I am ignorant of the interest I take in our fugitive. She is only foolish, as all tyrannical persons become, when they are oppressed. The servants of truth have expected much from her, and have granted her their protection. Heaven grant they may never repent of it."
"You judge an interesting and unfortunate princess harshly, sir count, and perhaps know no great deal of her affairs. I am ignorant of them."
"Do not tell a useless falsehood, Consuelo. You supped with her last night, and I can describe all the details to you." The count then told her of every circumstance, even what the princess and Madame Von Kleist said, the dresses they wore, the very bill of fare, their meeting thebalayeuse, etc. Neither did he pause there, but also told our heroine of the king's visit, what had been said, of his shaking the cane over her head, the threats and repentance of Consuelo, even their gestures and the expression of their faces, as clearly as if he had been present. He concluded, "My honest and generous child, you did very wrong to suffer yourself to be won by this return to friendship and kindness on the part of the king. You will repent of it. The royal tiger will make you feel his nails, unless you accept a more honest and respectable protection—one true, paternal, and all-powerful, which will not be restrained by the narrow limits of the Marquisate of Brandebourg, but will hover over the whole surface of the globe, and would accompany you to the deserts of the new world."
"I know of no being but God, who can extend such a protection, and will care for so insignificant a being as I am. If I be in danger here, in Him do I put my trust. I would have no confidence in any other care the means and motives of which I would be ignorant."
"Distrust ill becomes great souls," said the count. "Because Madame de Rudolstadt is one of those thus gifted, she has a right to the protection of God's true servants. For that reason is protection offered to you. The means are immense, and differ both in power and right from those possessed by kings and princes, as much as God in his sublimity differs from the most glorious despots. If you love and confide in divine justice, you are bound to recognise its action in good and intelligent men, who, here below, are the ministers of his will, and protectors of his supreme law. To redress crime, to protect the weak, to repress tyranny, to encourage and reward virtue, to preserve the sacred deposit of honor, has from all time been the mission of an illustrious phalanx of venerable men, who, from the beginning of time, have been perpetuated to our days. Look at the gross and inhuman laws which rule nations, look at human prejudice and error, see everywhere the monstrous traces of barbarism. How can you conceive that in a land so badly ruled by perfidious governments, all learning and true principles can be repressed? Such is the case, and we are able to find spotless lilies, pure flowers, hearts like your own, like Albert's, expanding and blooming amid the filth of earth. Think you they can preserve their perfume, avoid the unclean bite of reptiles, and resist the storm, if they be not sustained and preserved by friendly hands? Think you that Albert, that sublime man, stranger to all vulgar baseness, so superior to humanity that the uninitiated thought him mad, exhausted all his greatness and faith on himself? Think you he was an isolated fact in the universe, and contributed nothing to the hearth of sympathy and hope? You yourself—think you that you would have been what you are, had not the divine efflatus been received from Albert? How, separated from him, cast in a sphere unworthy of you, exposed to every peril, every danger, everything calculated to lead you astray, an actress, the confidante of an imprudent and enamored princess, the reputed mistress of a debauched, icy, and selfish monarch, do you expect to maintain the spotless purity of your primitive candor, if the mysterious wings of the archangels be not extended over you? Take care, Consuelo; not in yourself alone will you find the strength you need. The prudence of which you boast will be easily foiled by the ruses of the spirits of darkness, which wander around your virginial pillow. Learn, then, to respect the holy army, the invisible soldiery, armed with faith, which already forms a rampart around you. You are asked for neither engagements nor services; you are ordered only to be docile and confident when you are aware of the unexpected effects of their benevolent adoption. I have told you enough. You will reflect maturely on my words, and when the time shall come, you will see wonders accomplished around you. Then remember that all is possible to those who believe and work together, to those who are equal and free; yes, nothing is impossible to them who recognise merit—and if yours were so elevated as to deserve this great reward, know that they could resuscitate Albert, and restore him to you."
Having thus spoken, in a tone which seemed animated by conviction and enthusiasm, the red domino left Consuelo without waiting for a reply. He bowed to her before he left the box, where she remained for some momeuts, motionless and a prey to strange reveries.
Being now anxious to retire, Consuelo left the box, and in one of the corridors met two masks. One of them said, in a low tone—
"Do not trust the Count de St. Germain."
She fancied that she recognised the voice of Uberto Porporino, her brother artist, and took him by the sleeve of his domino. She said—
"Who is this count? I do not know him."
The mask did not seem to disguise his voice, which Consuelo at once recognised as that of young Benda, the melancholy violinist. He took her other hand, and said, "Distrust adventures and adventurers."
They then passed hastily, as if they were anxious to ask and answer no questions.
Consuelo was surprised that she had been so easily recognised, notwithstanding her care to disguise herself. Consequently she hurried to go. She soon saw that she was watched, and followed by a mask, the form and bearing of which seemed to denote Von Poelnitz, the director of the royal theatres, and chamberlain to the king. She had not the least doubt when he spoke to her, great soever as was his care to change his voice and tone. He made some idle remarks, to which she did not reply, for she saw distinctly that he wished to make her talk. She succeeded in getting rid of him, and went through the ball-room, so as to be able to give him the slip, in case he should persist in following her. There was a great crowd, and she had much difficulty in finding the entrance. Just at that moment she looked around, to be sure that she was not followed, and was surprised to see Poelnitz talking in the most friendly manner possible with the red domino, whom she supposed to be the Count de St. Germain. She was not aware that Poelnitz had known him in France, and feared some treason on the part of theadventurer—not for herself, but for the princess—the secret of whom she had involuntarily betrayed to a suspicious character.
When she awoke the next morning, she found a coronet of white roses hanging above her head, to the crucifix which had belonged to her mother, and with which she had never parted. She at the same time observed that the cypress bough, which, since the evening of a certain triumph at Vienna, when it had been thrown on the stage, had never ceased to adorn the crucifix, had disappeared. She looked in every direction for it in vain. It seemed that in substituting for it the fresh and smiling crown, this sad emblem had intentionally been removed. Her servant could not tell her how or when the substitution had been made. She said she had not left the house on the previous evening, and had admitted no one. She had not observed it when she prepared her mistress's bed, and had not noticed if the crown was there or not. In a word, she was so naïvely amazed at the matter, that it was difficult to suspect her sincerity. This girl had a very unselfish heart, of which Consuelo had received more than one proof. Her only fault was a great love of gossip, and making her mistress the confidant of all her chatterings. She did not on this occasion fail to weary her with a long story of the most tedious details, though she could give her no information. She did nothing but comment on the mysterious gallantry of the chaplet. Consuelo, ere long, was so wearied, that she besought her not to chatter any more, but to be quiet. When she was alone, she examined the coronet with the greatest care. The flowers were fresh, as if they had been gathered an instant before, and as full of perfume as if it was not mid-winter. Consuelo sighed when she thought such beautiful roses were at such a season scarcely to be found in any other place than in a royal residence, and that her maid, perhaps, had good reasons for not attributing them to the politeness of the king.
"He did not know," said she, "how fond I was of my cypress. Why did he take it away? It matters not what hand has committed this profanation, but may it be cursed!" As Porporina cast the chaplet from her, with an expression of great sadness, she saw a slip of white parchment fall from it, which she picked up, and on which she read these words, in an unknown hand:—
"Every noble action merits a recompense, and the only one worthy of great souls is the homage of hearts that sympathise. Let the cypress disappear from your bedside, my generous sister, and let these flowers rest on your brow, if but for a moment. It is your bridal crown—it is the pledge of your eternal marriage with virtue, and of your admission into the communion of the true believers."
Consuelo examined these characters with great surprise for a long time, and her imagination sought in vain to discover some similarity to Count Albert's writing. In spite of the distrust she entertained of the kind of initiation to which she was invited—in spite of the revulsion inspired by the promises of magic, which then was very popular in all Germany and all philosophical Europe—in spite of the advice her friends had given her, to be on her guard—the last words of the red domino, and the expressions of the anonymous note, excited her imagination almost to the point of downright curiosity, which may rather be called poetic anxiety. Without knowing why she obeyed the affectionate injunction of her unknown friends, she placed the coronet on her dishevelled hair, and fixed her eyes on a glass, as if she expected to see behind her the unknown apparition.
She was roused from her reverie by a short, distinct ring at the door, and a servant came to tell her that the Baron Von Buddenbrock had a word to say to her. Thiswordwas pronounced with all the arrogance an aide-de-camp always assumes when he is no longer under his master's eyes.
"Signorina," said he, when she had gone into the saloon, "you must go with me to the king at once. Make haste—the king awaits you."
"I will not wait on the king in slippers and in arobe-de-chambre," said La Porporina.
"I give you five minutes to dress," said Buddenbrock, taking his watch from his pocket and pointing to the door of her chamber.
Consuelo was frightened, but having made up her mind to assume all the dangers and misfortunes which might menace the princess and Trenck, dressed in less time that had been given her, and went in company with Buddenbrock, apparently perfectly calm. The aide had seen the king in a rage, and though he did not know why, when he received an order to bring the criminal, felt all the royal rage pass into his own heart. When he found Consuelo so calm, he remembered that his master had a great passion for this girl. He said that perhaps she might come out the victor in the contest which was about to begin, and be angry at his harsh conduct. He therefore thought it best to resume his humility, remembering he could play the tyrant when her disgrace was certain. He offered her his hand with an awkward and strange courtesy, to help her in the carriage he had brought, and looking shrewdly and sharply at her, as he sat on the front seat opposite her, with his hat in his hand, said:
"This, signorina, is a magnificent winter's day."
"Certainly, baron," said Consuelo, in a mocking tone. "It is a fine time to go beyond the walls."
As she spoke thus, Consuelo thought, with truly stoic calmness, that she was about to pass the rest of the dayen routeto some fortress. Buddenbrock, who could not conceive of such heroism, fancied that she menaced him, in case she triumphed over the stormy trials which awaited her, with disgrace and imprisonment. He became pale; he attempted to be agreeable, but could not, and remained thoughtful and discountenanced, asking himself anxiously what he had done to displease Porporina.
Consuelo was introduced into a cabinet, the rose-colored furniture of which she had time to see was scratched by the puppies that ran in and out of it, covered with snuff, and very dirty. The king was not there, but she heard his voice in the next room, and when he was in a bad humor his voice was a terrible one. "I tell you I will make an example of this rabble, which long has been gnawing the bowels of Prussia. I will purge them!" said he, as he walked with his creaking boots up and down, in the greatest agitation.
"Your majesty will do reason and Prussia a great service," said the person to whom he spoke, "but it is no reason why a woman——"
"Yes, Voltaire, it is a reason. You do not know that the worst intrigues and most infernal machinations originate in their brains?"
"A woman, sire! a woman!"
"Well, why repeat that again? You are fond of women, and have the misfortune to live under the control of a petticoat, and cannot treat them like soldiers and slaves when they interfere in serious matters."
"Your majesty cannot think there is anything serious in this affair? You must use soporifics, and the pump-workers of miracles and adepts of magic."
"You do not know what you are talking about, M. de Voltaire. What if I told you poor La Mettrie had been poisoned?"
"So will any one be who eats more than his stomach can contain and digest. Every indigestion is poison."
"I tell you his gourmandise alone did not kill him. They gave him apâté, made of an eagle, and told him it was pheasant."
"Well, the Prussian eagle is a deadly bird, but it uses lightning, not poison."
"Well, spare me your metaphors. I will bet a hundred to one it was poison. La Mettrie had faith in their extravagances, poor devil, and told to anyone who would listen, half serious half in jest, that they had shown him ghosts and devils. They crazed his incredulous and volatile mind. As, however, after being Trenck's friend, he had abandoned him, they punished him in their own way, I will now punish them, and in a way they will not forget. As for those who, under the cover of their infamous tricks, plot and deceive the vigilance of the laws——"
Here the king pushed to the door, which had not been entirely shut, and Consuelo heard no more. After waiting for a quarter of an hour in much anxiety, she saw Frederick appear. Rage had made him look frightfully old and ugly, he shut all the doors carefully, without looking at or speaking to her, and when he again approached, there was something so perfectly diabolical in his expression that she thought at first he was about to strangle her. She knew that in his moments of rage, all the savage instincts of his father returned to him, and that he did not hesitate to bruise and kick the legs of his public functionaries with his heavy boots, when he was in a bad humor. La Mettrie used to laugh at these outrages, and used to assure him that the exercise was good for the gout, with which the king was prematurely attacked.
La Mettrie would never again either make the king laugh, or laugh at him. Young, active, fat, and hearty, he had died two days before from excesses at the table; and I know not what dark fancy suggested to the king the idea of attributing his death, now to the machinations of the Jesuits, and then again to the fashionable sorcerers. The king himself, though not aware of it, was under the influence of the vague and puerile terror of the occult sciences, with which all Germany was then inspired.
"Listen to me," said he to Consuelo, with a piercing glance. "You are unmasked. You are lost, and there is but one way to save yourself—that is, to make a full, free and unreserved confession."
As Consuelo did not reply, he said—
"Down, wretch, down on your knees!"—(he pointed to the floor)—"you cannot make such a confession standing! Your brow should be in the dust. On your knees, or I will not hear you!"
"As I have nothing to tell you," said Consuelo, in an icy tone, "you have nothing to hear. As for kneeling, you can never make me do so."
The king at first felt inclined to knock Consuelo down and trample on her. She looked mechanically towards Frederick's hands, which were extended towards her, and fancied she saw his nails grow longer, as those of cats do when about to spring on their prey. The royal claws, however, were soon contracted; amid all his littlenesses, having too much grandeur of soul not to admire courage in others.
"Unfortunate girl," said he, with an expression of pity, "they have succeeded in making a fanatic of you. Listen to me. Time is precious. You yet may ransom your life. In five minutes it will he too late. Use them well, and decide on telling me all, or prepare to die."
"I am prepared," said Consuelo, indignant at the menace, which she thought he would not execute, and used only to frighten her.
"Be silent and think," said the king, placing himself at his desk, and opening a book, with an affectation of calmness, which did not hide a deep and painful emotion.
Consuelo, while she remembered that the Baron Von Buddenbrock had aped the king grotesquely, by giving her, with watch in hand, five minutes to dress herself, she took advantage of the time to reflect on the line of conduct she should pursue. She saw that what she should most avoid was the shrewd and penetrating cross-examination with which the king would entrap her, as in a web. Who can flatter and trick a criminal judge like Frederick? She was in danger of falling into the snare, and ruining the princess instead of saving her. She then took the generous resolution of not seeking to justify herself, but of asking of what she was accused, and irritating the judge, so that he award an unreasonable and unjust sentence,ab irato.Ten minutes passed thus, without the king's looking up from his book. Perhaps he wished to give her time to change her mind. Perhaps he had been absorbed by his book.
"Have you determined?" said he, at last, putting down his book crossing his legs, and leaning his elbows on the table.
"I have nothing to determine on, being under the power of violence and injustice; I have only to submit."
"Do you charge me with violence and injustice?"
"If not yourself, it is the absolute power you exercise, which corrupts your soul, and leads your justice astray."
"Very well. Then you establish yourself as a judge of my conduct, and forget you have but a few moments left to save yourself from death."
"You have no right to take my life, for I am not your subject. If you violate the law of nations, so much the worse for you. For my own part, I had rather die than live one day longer under your laws."
"You confess your hatred frankly," said the king, who appeared to penetrate Consuelo's design, and who was about to foil it by putting on an air ofsang-froidand contempt. "I see that you have been to a good school, and therôleof Spartan virgin, which you play so well, is a great evidence against your accomplices. It reveals their conduct more completely than you think. You are not acquainted with the law of nations and of men. Any sovereign can destroy all in his states who conspire against him."
"I a conspirator!" said Consuelo, carried away by the feeling of conscious truth, and too indignant to vindicate herself. She shrugged her shoulders, turned her back on the king, and without knowing what she was doing, seemed about to go away.
"Where are you going?" said the king, struck by her air of candor.
"To the prison!—to the scaffold!—to any place you please!—provided you do not make me listen to this absurd accusation!"
"You are very angry," said the king, with a sardonic laugh. "Do you wish to know why? You come here with the intention of playing the Roman before me, and your comedy has been cut down into a mere interlude. Nothing is so mortifying, especially to an actress, as not to be able to play her part effectively."
Consuelo, scorning to reply, folded her arms and looked so fixedly at the king that he was disconcerted. To stifle the rage which burned within him, he was forced to break silence, and resume his bitter mockery, hoping that in this way he would irritate the accused, and that to defend herself she would lose her reserve and distrust.
"Yes," said he, as if in reply to the silent language of her proud face. "I know well enough you have been made to think I was in love with you, and that you could brave me with impunity. All this would be very amusing, were it not that persons on whom I place a higher estimate were not the cause of the affair. Vain of playing a great part, you forgot that subaltern confidants are always sacrificed by those who employ them. I cannot, therefore, punish them, for they are too near to me for it to be possible to chastise them, except by the contemplation of your suffering. It is for you to see if you can undergo this misfortune for persons who have betrayed your interests, and have on your ambitious and indiscreet zeal thrown all the suffering."
"Sire," said Consuelo, "I do not know what you mean. The manner, however, in which you speak of confidants, makes me shudder for you!"
"Why!"
"Because you make me think that when you were the first victim of tyranny, you would have surrendered Major Katt to a paternal inquisition."
The king became pale as death. All are aware that after an attempted flight to England, when young, he had witnessed the decapitation of his confidant. When in prison, he had been taken and held by force at a window, and made to see his friend's blood run on the scaffold. This horrible scene, of which he was innocent as possible, made a terrible impression on him. It is the fate of princes to follow the example of despotism, even when they have suffered most by it. The mind of Frederick from misfortune became moody; and after a youth passed in prison and chains, he ascended the throne imbued with the principles and prejudices of absolute authority. No reproach could be so severe as that which Consuelo addressed to him, when she thus recalled his early misfortunes, and made him aware of his present injustice. His very heart was grieved, but the effect it worked was as little beneficial to his hardened soul as the punishment of Katt had been in other days. He rose and said, "You may retire," at the same time ringing the bell, and during the few seconds which intervened before his call was answered, opened his book again, and pretended to be interested by it. A nervous tremor shook his hand, however, and made the leaves rustle as he turned them.
A valet entered. The king waved his hand, and Consuelo went into another room. One of the king's leverets, that had watched Consuelo, and had not ceased to wag its tail and gambol around her, as if to challenge a caress, followed her. The king, who had a paternal feeling only for these animals, was obliged to call Mopsula back, just as she was passing the door with Consuelo. The king had the mania, not altogether irrational perhaps, of attributing to these animals an instinctive perception of the feelings of those who approached them. He became suspicious of persons whom he saw his dogs dislike, and liked those whom they fawned on willingly. In spite of his mental agitation, the marked sympathy of Mopsula had not escaped him; and when the pet returned to him with an expression of sadness, he knocked, on the table and said to himself as he thought of Consuelo, "Yet she was not badly disposed to me."
"Has your majesty asked for me?" said Buddenbrock, as he appeared at another door.
"No," said the king, who was offended at the anxiety with which the courtier came to pounce on his prey. "Go away. I will ring for you."
Mortified at being treated like a valet, Buddenbrock left; and during the few moments the king passed in meditation, Consuelo was retained in the Gobelin-hall. At length the bell was heard, and the aide-de-camp did not because of his mortification delay to hasten to the king. The king appeared somewhat softened and communicative.
"Buddenbrock," said he, "that girl is an admirable character. At Rome she would have deserved a triumph—a car with eight horses, and a chaplet of oak leaves. Have a post-chaise prepared, take her yourself out of the city, and send her under a good escort to Spandau, to be confined as a state prisoner—not with the largest allowance of liberty. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sire."
"One minute. Get into the carriage with her to pass through the city, and frighten her by your conversation. It will be well to make her think she is to be delivered to the executioner, and flogged as people were in my father's time. Remember, however, while you talk thus, you must not disturb a hair of her head; and put on your glove when you give her your hand. Go: and learn, when you admire her stoical devotion, how you should act to those who honor you with their confidence. It will do you no harm."
Consuelo was taken to her house in the same carriage which had brought her to the palace. Two sentinels were placed at each door of her house; and the Baron of Buddenbrock, watch in hand, imitating the rigid punctuality of his master, gave her one hour to make her preparations, telling her at the same time that her packages would be examined by the officers of the fortress to which she was about to be sent. When she entered her room, all was in the most picturesque disorder. During her conference with the king, officers of the secret police had come, in obedience to order, to open every lock and take possession of all her papers. Consuelo had except her music, nothing of consequence, and was much distressed in thinking that perhaps she would never see her favorite authors again—and they were the only fortune she had amassed. She cared much less for various jewels given her by some of the most exalted personages of Vienna and Berlin, as a kind of pay for her services at their concerts. They were taken from her under the pretence that perhaps the rings were poisoned or had seditious emblems. The king never heard of them, nor did Consuelo ever see them. The subordinate officers of Frederick had no scruples in relation to such peculations, for they were badly paid, and knew the king would rather shut his eyes to their conduct than increase their pay.
Consuelo looked first for her crucifix, and thinking that they had neglected it on account of its small value, took it down and put it in her pocket. She saw the chaplet of roses lying withered on the floor. When she took it up, she perceived with terror that the band of parchment which contained the mysterious encouragement was not there.
This was the only proof possible of her complicity in the pretended conspiracy; but to what commentaries might this be the index? While looking anxiously around for it, she put her hand in her pocket and found it there, where she had placed it mechanically when Buddenbrock had called her an hour before.
Made at ease in relation to this, and being well aware that nothing which could compromise her would be found among her papers, she hastened to collect all she might need during an absence the duration of which she knew would be altogether indefinite. She had no one to help her, her servant having been arrested as a witness; and amid her dresses which had been pulled out of the drawers and thrown at random about the room, she had great difficulty in finding what she needed. Suddenly she heard some sonorous object fall on the floor. It was a large nail which was passed through a letter.
The style was laconic. "Do you wish to escape? Show yourself at the window, and in ten minutes you will be in safety."
The first idea of Consuelo was to go to the window. She paused, however, for she fancied that her flight, in case she effected it, would be considered as proof of guilt, and that this would be considered a confession that she had accomplices.
"Princess Amelia!" thought she, "if it be true that you have betrayed me, so will I not you! I will discharge my debt to Trenck. He saved my life; and if it be necessary, I will lose mine for him!"
Revived by this generous idea, she completed her preparations with much presence of mind, and was ready when Buddenbrock came for her to go. On this occasion she thought him more hypocritical and disagreeable than ever. Being both servile and arrogant, Buddenbrock was jealous of his master's sympathies, just as old dogs snap at all who visit the house. He had been mortified at the lesson the king had given him when he received orders to make Consuelo suffer from her situation, and asked for nothing better than to be avenged.
"I am much grieved, signora," said he, "at having to execute such rigorous orders. For a long time nothing like it has been witnessed in Berlin. No; it has not occurred since the time of Frederick William, the august father of the present king. It was a cruel example of the severity of the law, and of the power of our princes. I will remember it as long as I live. Then neither age nor sex were respected when an error was to be punished. I remember a very pretty girl, well-born and amiable, who, for having received the visit of an august person, contrary to the king's wish, was flogged by an executioner, and driven from the city."
"I know that story, sir," said Consuelo, with mingled fear and indignation. "The young girl was prudent and pure. Her only offence was, that she used to practise music with the present king, then prince royal. Has the king suffered so little from the catastrophes to which he has subjected others, that he now dares attempt to frighten me by so infamous a threat?"
"I think not, signora. His majesty does nothing but what is great and just, and you must know whether or not your innocence shelters you from his anger. I would think so if I could, but just now I saw the king more irritated than he ever was. He said that he was wrong in attempting to reign by mildness, and that in his father's days no woman had dared to act as you had. From some other words of his majesty, I am afraid some degrading punishment—I cannot conjecture what—awaits you. But my duty is painful; we are now at the gates of the city, and if I find there that the king has given any orders contrary to those I received to conduct you to Spandau, I will withdraw, my rank not permitting me to be present."
Buddenbrock, seeing the effect he had produced, and that Consuelo was almost ready to faint, stopped. She, at that moment, almost regretted her devotion, and could not in her heart refrain from appealing to her unknown protectors. But as she looked with a haggard eye at Buddenbrock, she saw in his face the hesitating expression of falsehood, and began to grow calm. Her heart yet beat as if it would burst her breast, when a police officer presented himself at the gate, to exchange a few words with Buddenbrock. During this conversation, one of the grenadiers who had come on horseback with the carriage, came to the other door, and said, in a low tone, "Be calm, signorina, blood will be shed rather than that you should be injured." In her trouble, Consuelo did not distinguish the features of her unknown friend, who at once withdrew. The carriage proceeded at a gallop towards the fortress, and, in about an hour, Porporina was incarcerated in due form, or rather with the prevailing want of form, in the castle of Spandau.
This citadel, at that time considered impregnable, is situated in the bay formed by the confluence of the Havel and the Spree. The day had become dark and gloomy, and Consuelo having completed the sacrifice, experienced that apathetic exhaustion which follows energy and enthusiasm. She therefore suffered herself to be taken to the gloomy abode intended for her, without even looking around. She was exhausted; and though it was noon only, threw herself, dressed as she was, on the bed, and went fast asleep. In addition to the fatigue, she experienced, was added that kind of delicious security, the fruits of which a good conscience always receives. Though the bed was hard, she slept profoundly as possible.
She had been for some time in a kind of half-slumber, when she heard midnight struck by the castle clock. The impression of sound is so keen to musical ears that she was awakened at once. When she left her bed, she understood that she was in prison, and she was forced to pass the whole night in thought, as she had slept all day. She was surprised at not suffering with cold, and was especially pleased at not feeling that physical inconvenience which paralyses thought. The wind bellowed outside in the most mournful manner, the rain beat on the window, and Consuelo could see through the narrow window nothing but the iron grating painted on the dark ground of a starless sky.
The poor captive passed the first hour of this new and unknown punishment, with her mind perfectly lucid, and with thoughts full of logic, reason, and philosophy. Gradually, however, this tension fatigued her brain, and the night became lugubrious. Her positive reflections changed into vague and strange reveries. Fantastic images, painful memories, terrible apprehensions assailed her, and she found herself in a state neither of sleeping nor watching, yet where all her ideas assumed some form and seemed to float amid the darkness of her cell. Sometimes she fancied herself on the stage, and mentally sang a part that fatigued her, and the representation of which haunted her, without her being able to get rid of it: sometimes she saw herself in the hands of the executioner, with bare shoulders, amid a stupid and curious crowd, lacerated by the rod, while the king, with angry air, looked down from the balcony, and Anzoleto stood laughing in one corner. At last, she felt a kind of torpor, and saw nothing but the spectre of Albert in a cenotaph, making vain efforts to rise and come to her aid. Then, this image was effaced, and she fancied herself asleep in the grotto of Schreckenstein, while the sublime and sad notes of the violin uttered in the depths of the cavern Albert's eloquent and lacerating prayer. Consuelo, in fact, was but half asleep, and the sound of the instrument flattered her ear, and restored quiet to her soul. The phrases, however, were so united, though weakened by distance, and the modulations were so distinct, that she really fancied she heard them, and was not astonished at the fact. It seemed that this fantastic performance lasted more than an hour, and that it lost in the air its insensible gradations. Consuelo then sunk again to sleep and day began to dawn when she opened her eyes.
The first care she had was to look around her room, which she had not even looked at on the previous evening, so absorbed was she by the sensations of physical life. She was in a cell, perfectly naked, but clean, and warmed by a brick stove, which was lighted on the outside, and which shed no light in the room, though it maintained an equable temperature. One single arched window lighted the room, which yet was not too dark: the walls were white-washed and rather high.
Three knocks were heard at the door, and the keeper said aloud, "Prisoner, number three, get up and dress: in a quarter of an hour your room will be visited."
Consuelo hastened to obey, and to remake her bed before the return of the keeper, who in a very respectful manner brought her bread and water for the day. He had the air and bearing of an old major-domo, and placed the frugal prison-allowance on the table, with as much care and propriety as if it had been the most carefully prepared repast.
Consuelo looked at this man, who was old, and whose fine and gentle physiognomy at first had nothing repulsive in it. He had been selected to wait on the women, on account of his manners, his good behavior, and his discretion, beyond all trial. His name was Swartz, and he informed Consuelo of the fact.
"I live below you," said he, "and if you be sick call to me through the window."
"Have you not a wife?" said Consuelo.
"Certainly," said he, "and if you really need her, she will wait on you. It is, however, forbidden to have anything to say with female prisoners, except in special cases—the surgeon must say when. I have also a son who will share with me the honor of serving you."
"I have no need of so many servants, and if you please, Swartz, I will be satisfied with your wife and yourself."
"I know that ladies are satisfied with my age and appearance. You need not fear my son more than you do me, for he is a lad full of piety, gentleness, and firmness."
"You will not require that last quality with me. I came hither almost voluntarily, and have no wish to escape. As long as I am served decently and properly, as people seem disposed, I will submit to the prison rules, rigorous as they may be."
As she spoke thus, Consuelo, who had eaten nothing during the past twenty-four hours, and who had suffered all night with hunger, began to break the loaf and to eat it with a good appetite.
She then observed that her resignation made an impression on the old keeper, and both amazed and annoyed him.
"Your ladyship, then, has no aversion to this coarse food?" said he, awkwardly.
"I will not deny, that for the sake of my health in future, I wish for something more substantial: if, however, I must be satisfied with this, I will not be greatly put out."
"Yet you are used to live well? You have a good table at home, I suppose?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Then," said Swartz, "why do you not have a comfortable one prepared for you here?"
"Is that permitted?"
"Certainly," said Swartz, whose eyes glittered at the idea of this business, for he had feared to find a person too poor or too sober to ask it. "If your ladyship has been shrewd enough to conceal any money on your person, I am not prohibited from furnishing food to you. My wife is a very good cook, and we have a very comfortable table service."
"That is very kind," said Consuelo, who discovered Swartz' cupidity with more disgust than satisfaction. "The question, however, is to know if I really have money. They searched me when I came hither, and I know they left me a crucifix, to which I attached much interest, but I cannot say whether they have left me my purse."
"Has not your ladyship observed it?"
"No; does that surprise you?"
"But your ladyship certainly knows what was in the purse."
"Nearly." As she spoke, Consuelo examined her pockets, but did not find a farthing. She said, in a gay tone, "They have left me nothing that I can find: I must be satisfied with prison fare. Do not be mistaken as to that fact."
"Well, madame," said Swartz, not without a visible effort over himself, "I will show you that my family is honest. Your purse is in my pocket; here it is," and he showed Porporina her purse, which he immediately put in his pocket.
"Much good may it do you," said Porporina, amazed at his impudence.
"Wait awhile," said the avaricious keeper. "My wife searched you. She was ordered to let the prisoners have no money, lest they should use it to corrupt their keepers. When the latter are incorruptible, the precaution is useless. She thought, therefore, her duty did not require her to give your money to the major. As, however, she must obey the letter of the order, your purse cannot be returned directly to your hands."
"Keep it, then," said Consuelo, "since such is your pleasure."
"To be sure I will, and you will thank me for doing so. I am the depository of your money, and will use it for your wants. I will bring you such dishes as you wish; I will keep your stove hot, and even furnish you with a better bed and bed-linen. I will keep a regular account, and pay myself discreetly from your fund."
"So be it," said Consuelo. "I see one can make terms with heaven, and I appreciate the honesty of Herr Swartz as I should. When this sum, which is not large, shall be exhausted, will you not furnish me with the means of procuring more?"
"I do not say so. That would be to violate my duty, a thing I will never do; but your ladyship will never suffer, if you will tell me who at Berlin or elsewhere is the depository of your funds. I will send my accounts to that person, in order that they may be regularly paid. My orders do not forbid that."
"Very well: you have contrived a way to correct that order, which is a very agreeable thing, as it permits you to treat us well, and prohibits us from having anything to say about it. When my ducats are gone, I will contrive to satisfy you. First of all, bring me some chocolate; give me for dinner a chicken and vegetables; get some books for me during the day, and at night give me a light."
"The chocolate your ladyship will have in five minutes; dinner will be prepared at once. I will give you also some good soup, little delicacies which ladies do not disdain, and coffee, which is very salutary to combat the damp air of our residence. The books and light are inadmissible: I would be dismissed at once, and my conscience does not permit me to violate my orders."
"But, other than prison food is equally prohibited."
"Not so. We are permitted to treat ladies, and especially your ladyship, humanely, in all that relates to health and comfort."
"Ennuiis equally injurious to the health."
"Your ladyship is mistaken. Good food and mental repose make all here fat. I might mention a lady who came hither as thin as you, and who, after being a prisoner twenty years, was discharged, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds."
"Thank you, sir, I do not wish such immenseembonpoint.I hope you will not refuse me books and a light."
"I humbly ask your ladyship's pardon; but I cannot violate my duty. Besides, your ladyship will not suffer fromennui; you will have a piano and music here."
"Indeed! And to whom will I be indebted for this consolation? To you?"
"No, signora: to his majesty: and I have an order from the governor to have the above-mentioned articles placed in your room."
Consuelo was delighted at being allowed the means ofmaking music, and asked nothing more. She took her chocolate gaily, while Swartz put her furniture in order, that is to say, a miserable bed, two straw chairs, and a pine table. "Your ladyship will need acommode," said he, with the kind air assumed by persons who wish to overpower others with care and attention, in exchange for their money: "then a better bed, a carpet, a chest of drawers, an arm-chair, and a toilette."
"I will take the commode and toilette," said Consuelo, who sought to take care of her means. "The rest I will not ask you for. I am not particular, and beg you to give me only what I ask for."
Swartz shook his head with astonishment, almost with contempt; he did not reply, however, and when he had rejoined his worthy wife, said:
"She is not a bad person, I mean the new prisoner, but she is poor; we will not make much from her."
"How much do you wish her to spend?" said the wife, shrugging her shoulders. "She is not a great lady, but an actress, they tell me."
"An actress!" said Swartz. "Well, I am glad for our son Gotlieb's sake."
"Fie on you," said Vrau Swartz, with a frown. "Do you wish to make him a rope-dancer?"
"You do not understand, wife. He will be a preacher. I will never give it up, for he is of the wood of which they are made, and has studied. As he must preach, and as he has as yet shown no great eloquence, this actress will give him lessons in declamation."
"That is not a bad idea, if she will not charge her lessons against our bills."
"Be easy, then; she has no sense," said Swartz, snickering and rubbing his hands.
During the day the piano came. It was the same one Consuelo had hired at Berlin. She was very glad not to be obliged to run the risk of a new acquaintance with another less agreeable and less sure instrument. The king, too, who was used to enquire into the minutest details, had ascertained when he gave the orders to send the instrument to the prison, that it did not belong to the prima donna, but was hired, and had caused the owner to be told that he would be responsible for its return, but that the rent must be paid by the prima donna. The owner had then said, that he had no resource to reach a person in prison, especially if the person should die. Poelnitz, who was charged with this mission, replied with a laugh, "My dear sir, you would not quarrel with the king on such a matter; and besides, it would be of no use. Your instrument is now under execution, and is, perhaps, at this moment in Spandau."
The manuscripts and arrangements of Porporina were also brought; and, as she was astonished at so much amenity in the prisonrégime, the commandant major of the place came to visit her, and to explain that she would be required to perform her duty as first singer of the opera.
"Such," said he, "is his majesty's will. Whenever the opera-bill hears your name, an escorted coach will take you to the theatre, and return with you to the fortress immediately after the representation. These arrangements will be effected with the greatest exactness, and with the respect due to you. I trust, mademoiselle, that you will not force us, by any attempt to escape, to double the rigor of your captivity. Agreeably to the king's orders, you have been placed in a room with a fire, and you will be allowed to walk on the ramparts as often as you please. In a word, we are responsible, not only for your person, but for your health and voice. The only inconvenience you will be subjected to, will be solitary confinement, without permission to see any one, either within or without the fortress. As we have but few ladies here, a single keeper suffices for the whole building they occupy, and you will not be forced to be tended on by coarse people. The good countenance and good manners of Swartz must have made you easy in that point of view.Ennuiwill be the only inconvenience you will be subjected to, and I fancy that at your age and in the brilliant sphere in which you were——"
"Be assured, major," said Consuelo, with dignity; "I never suffer fromennuiwhen I have any occupation. I only require a small favor—writing materials and light—that I may attend to my music in the evenings."
"That is altogether impossible, and I am in despair at being forced to refuse the request of so spirited a lady. I can only, by way of palliative, give you permission to sing at any hour of the day or night. Yours is the only occupied chamber in this isolated tower. The quarters of Swartz are below, it is true, but he is too polite to complain of so magnificent a voice. For my part, I regret being too distant to hear it."
This dialogue, which was in the presence of Master Swartz, was terminated by low bows, and the old officer retired, with a conviction, derived from the prisoner's composure, that she had been consigned to his charge on account of some infraction of theatrical discipline, and for a few weeks at most. Consuelo herself did not know whether she was accused of complicity in a political conspiracy, or only of having served Frederick Von Trenck, or of being the prudent confidant of the Princess Amelia.
For two or three days the captive was more uncomfortable, sad, andennuyéethan she chose to own. The length of the night at that season, fourteen hours, was particularly disagreeable, even while she hoped to be able to induce Swartz to give her pen, ink, and paper. Ere long, however, she saw that this obsequious personage was inflexible. He did not at all resemble the majority of people of his class, who love to persecute those committed to their custody. He was even pious, in his way, thinking perhaps that he served God and earned salvation so long as he persisted in discharging the duties of his situation, which he could not neglect. It is true the indulgences granted were few, and related to the articles in which there was more chance of profit with the prisoners than danger of losing his place.
"She is very simple to think that to earn a few groschen I would run the risk of losing my place," said he to his wife, who was the Egeria of these consultations. "Take care," he exclaimed, "not to grant her a single meal when her purse is empty!——-Do not be alarmed. She has saved something, and has told me that Signor Porporino, a singer of the theatre, has it in keeping."
"It is a bad chance," said the woman; "read again the code of Prussian law in relation to actresses; it forbids all suits on their part. Take care, then, that Porporino does not quote the law and retain the money when you present your accounts."
"But as her engagement at the theatre is not broken by imprisonment, since she must continue her duty, I will make seizure of the theatrical treasury."
"Who knows if she will get her salary? The king knows the law better than any one else, and if he invoke it."
"You think of everything, wife!" cried Swartz. "I will be on my guard. No money—no fire, no food, and regulation furniture. The letter of the orders!"
Thus the Swartz decided on Consuelo's fate. When she became satisfied that the honest keeper was incorruptible in relation to lights, she made up her mind, and so arranged her day, as to suffer least from the length of the night. She would not sing by day, reserving that occupation for the night. She also refrained, as far as possible, from thinking of music and occupying her mind with musical recollections and inspirations before the hours of darkness. On the contrary, she devoted the whole day to reflections suggested by her position, to the past, and to dreamy anticipations of the future. In this way, for the time, she succeeded in dividing her time into two parts, one philosophical, and the other musical, and saw at once, that with perseverance she could, to a certain degree, contrive to subject to the will of that capricious and fiery courser, fancy, the whimsical muse of the imagination. By living soberly, in spite of the prescriptions and insinuations of Swartz, by taking much exercise, even when she took no pleasure in it, on the ramparts, she was enabled to be calm at evening, and employ very agreeably those hours of darkness, which prisoners, by wishing to seek sleep to escapeennui, fill with phantoms and agitation. Finally, by appropriating only six hours to sleep, she was sure of being able to sleep quietly every night, never permitting an excess of repose to prevail over the tranquillity of the next night.
After eight days, she had become so used to prison, that it seemed she had never lived in any other manner. Her evenings, at first so much feared, became the most agreeable part of the day, and darkness, far from terrifying, revealed to her treasures of musical conception, which she had felt for a long time, though unable to evolve in the excitement of her profession. When she saw that improvisation and the exercise of memory would suffice to fill her evenings, she devoted a few hours of the day to note her inspirations, and to study her authors with more care than she had been able to do amid a thousand emotions, or beneath the eye of an impatient, and systematic teacher.
To write music she first made use of a pin, with which she pricked notes between the lines, and afterwards with little pieces of wood, stripped from the furniture, and which she charred against the stove when it was hottest. As this occupied much time, and she had a very small quantity of ruled paper, she saw it would be best to exercise the powerful memory with which she was gifted, and trust the numerous compositions she made every evening to it. Practice enabled her to do this so thoroughly, that she could pass from one to the other of these unwritten compositions without confusion.
Yet, as her room was very warm, thanks to the fuel which Swartz kindly added to the allowance, and as the rampart on which she walked was perpetually swept by an icy wind, she could not avoid several days' cold, which deprived her of the pleasure of singing at the Berlin theatre. The surgeon of the fortress, who had been ordered to see her twice a week, and to give an account of her health to Von Poelnitz, wrote that her voice was gone exactly on the day when the baron, with the king's consent, was about to suffer her to appear before the public again. Her egress was thus postponed, without her feeling any chagrin at it. She did not wish to breathe the air of liberty until she had become so used to her prison as to be able to return to it without regret.
She consequently did not nurse the cold with so much care as an actress usually displays for that precious organ, her throat, and thus experienced a phenomenon known to the whole world. Fever produces in every one's brain a more or less painful illusion. Some think that the angles, formed by the sides of the wall, draw near to them, until they seem finally to press and crush their frames. They see the angles gradually diverge and leave them free, return again, and resume the same alternative of annoyance and relief. Others take their bed for a wave, which raises and depresses them between the ceiling and the floor. The writer of this veracious history, is made aware of fever by the presence of a vast black shadow, which spreads upon a brilliant surface, in which she is placed. This spot of shade, swimming in an imaginary sun, is perpetually expanding and contracting. It dilates so as to cover the whole brilliant surface, and again contracts so as to be a mere thread, after which it extends again, to be successively attenuated and thickened. This vision would not be at all unpleasant for the dreamer, if he did not imagine, from some unhealthy sensation, difficult to be understood, that he was himself the obscure reflection of some unknown object, floating without repose in an arena embraced by the fires of an invisible sun. So great is this, that when the imaginary shadow contracts, his own being seems to diminish and elongate, so as to become the shadow of a hair; and when it expands, to be the reflection of a mountain overhanging a valley. In the reverie, however, there is neither mountain nor valley. There is nothing but the reflection of an opaque body making on the sun's reflection, which the black ball of a cat's eye makes in the transparent iris, and this hallucination, unaccompanied by sleep, becomes intensely painful.
We may mention another person, who, in a fever, sees a floor giving way every moment. Another, who fancies himself a globe, floating in space; a third, who takes the space between his bed and the floor for a precipice—while a fourth is always dragged to the left. Every reader may find observations and phenomena from his own experience; but this will not advance the question, nor will it explain better than we can, how every person during his life, or, at least, during a long series of years, has at night a dream which is his, and not another's, and undergoes at every attack of fever a certain hallucination, which always presents the same character and the same kind of anguish. This question is a physiological one, and I think the medical men will find some instruction—I do not say about the actual disease which reveals itself by other and more evident symptoms, but of some latent malady, originating in the weak point of the patient's organization, and which it is dangerous to provoke by certain reactives.
This question is not original with the author, who begs his reader's pardon for having introduced it.
Of our heroine, we must say that the hallucination caused by fever presented a musical character, and affected the auditory nerves. She resumed then the reverie she had when awake, or at least half awake, on her first night in the prison. She fancied that she heard the plaintive tone and the eloquentphrasesof Albert's violin—now strong and distinct, now weak, as if they came from the distance of the horizon. There was in these imaginary sounds something painfully strange. When the vibration seemed to approach, Consuelo felt a feeling of terror. When it was fully displayed, it was with a power which completely overwhelmed. Then the sound became feeble, and she felt some consolation, for the fatigue of listening with constant attention to a song which became lost in space, made her soon feel feeble, during which she could hear nothing. The constant return of the harmonious tremor filled her with fear, trembling, and terror, as if the sweep of some fantastic bow had embraced all air, and unchained the storm around.
Consuelo soon recovered, and was able again to sing at night, and sleep calmly as before.
One day, the twelfth of her incarceration, she received a note from Von Poelnitz, which informed her that on the next night she would leave the fortress.
"I have obtained from the king," said he, "permission to go for you, in one of his own carriages. If you promise me not to escape through the windows, I hope I will even be able to dispense with the escort, and reproduce you at the theatre without all that melancholycortège.Believe me, you have no more devoted friend than I am; and I deplore the rigorous treatment, perhaps unjust, which you undergo."
Porporina was somewhat amazed at the sudden friendship and delicate attention of the baron. In his intercourse with theprima donna, Von Poelnitz, who wasex-roué, with no respect for virtue, had been very cold and abrupt in his demeanor at first; subsequently, he had spoken of her regular conduct and of her reserved manners with the most disobliging irony. Nearly everybody knew the old chamberlain was a royal spy; but Consuelo was not initiated in the secrets of the court, and was not aware that any one could discharge such a disagreeable duty without losing the advantage of position in society. A vague, instinctive aversion, however, told Consuelo that Poelnitz had contributed more to her misfortune than he had alleviated it. She therefore watched every word that was uttered when she was alone with him on the next evening, as the coach bore them rapidly to Berlin.
"Well, my poor recluse," said he, "you are in a terrible condition. Are the veteran servitors who guard you very stern? They would never permit me to go inside the citadel, under the pretext that I had no permit. They kept me on that account freezing for a quarter of an hour at the gate while I was waiting for you. Well, wrap yourself closely in this fur I brought to preserve your voice, and tell me what has happened. What on earth passed at that last carnival ball? Everyone asks a question which none can answer. Many innocent persons like myself have disappeared as if by enchantment. The Count de Saint Germain, who I think is one of your friends, has disappeared. A certain Trismegistus, who it is said was in hiding at the house of one Golowkin, and whom perhaps you know, for they say you are familiar as any one with all that devil's brood——"
"Have those persons been arrested?"
"Or have they taken flight. There are two versions in the town."
"If these persons know no more than I do, why, they are persecuted. They had better have waited boldly for their persecution."
"The new moon may change the monarch's humor. I advise you to sing well to-night. That is your best chance, and will have more effect on him than fine words. How the deuce could you be so imprudent as to suffer yourself to be sent to Spandau? The king would never, for such trifles as you are accused of, have inflicted so uncourteous a sentence upon a lady. You must have answered him arrogantly, with your cap on your ear and your hand on your sword-hilt. What had you done that was wrong? Let me see—what was it? I will undertake to arrange matters; and if you follow my advice, you will not return to that damp swamp, but will sleep to-night in a pretty room at Berlin. Come, tell me. They say you supped in the palace with the Princess Amelia, and that one fine night you amused yourself by playing the ghost and thebalayeusein the corridors, for the purpose of scaring the queen's ladies of honor. It seems that several of these ladies have miscarried, and the most virtuous are likely to give birth to children with brooms on their noses. They say you had your fortune told by Madame Von Kleist's astrologer, and that Saint Germain revealed to you all the secrets of Philip the Fair. Are you simple enough to think that the king means anything else than to laugh with his sister at these follies? The king, besides, has a weakness almost equal to child's play for the abbess. As for the fortune-tellers, he only wishes to know whether they ring their changes for money, in which case they must leave the country and all is done. You see clearly, then, that you take advantage of your position, and that had you answered some unimportant questions quietly, you would not have passed the carnival at Spandau in such a sad manner."
Consuelo let the old courtier chatter away, without interruption; and when he pressed her to reply, persisted in saying that she did not know what he was talking of. She saw that some snare lurked beneath all this frivolity.
Von Poelnitz then changed his tactics.
"This is well," said he. "You distrust me. I am not displeased. On the contrary, I value your prudence highly. Since you are of this disposition, signora, I will speak plainly. I perceive that you may be trusted, and that our secret is in good hands. Know, then, Signora Porporina, that I am more your friend than you imagine. I am one of you. I am of the party of Prince Henry."
"Prince Henry has a party, then?" said Porporina, who was anxious to learn the intrigue in which she was said to be involved.
"Do not pretend ignorance," said the baron. "It is a party at present much persecuted, but far from being desperate. The Grand Lama, or, if you like the title better, the Marquis, does not sit so firmly on his throne that he cannot be shaken out of it. Prussia is a good war-horse, but must not be pushed too far."
"Then you are a conspirator, Baron Von Poelnitz! I never suspected you."
"Who does not conspire now? The tyrant is surrounded by servants who are apparently faithful. They have however, sworn his ruin."
"You are very wrong, baron, to confide this to me."
"If I do so, it is because I am authorized by the prince and princess."
"Of what princess do you speak?"
"Of one you know. I do not think the others conspire, unless, perhaps, the Margravine of Bareith does; for she is offended at her position, and angry with the king, since he scolded her about her understanding with the Cardinal de Fleury. That is an old story; but a woman's anger is of long duration, and the Margravine Guillemette[10]is not the common-place person she seems."
"I never had the honor of hearing her say a word."
"But you saw her at the rooms of the Abbess of Quedlimburgh."
"I was never but once at the rooms of the Princess Amelia, and the only member of the family I saw was the king."
"It matters not. Prince Henry had ordered me to say——"
"Really, baron!" said Consuelo, contemptuously, "has the prince instructed you to say anything?"
"You shall see that I do not jest. You must know that his affairs are not ruined, as people assert. None of his friends have betrayed him. Saint Germain is now in France, attempting to unite our conspiracy with that which is about to replace Charles Edward on the throne of England. Trismegistus alone has been arrested, but he will escape, and the prince is sure of his discretion. He conjures you not to suffer yourself to be terrified by the threats of the Marquis. Especially he enjoins you to confide in none who pretend to be his friends and wish to speak to you. On that account just now you were subjected to an ordeal, which you sustained satisfactorily. I will say to our hero, to our brave prince, that you are one of the best champions of his cause."
Consuelo could no longer restrain her laughter. The baron, mortified at her contempt, asked the reason. She could only say——
"Ah, baron, you are sublime, and admirable!" and again her laughter became irrepressible.
"When this nervous attack is over," said the chamberlain, "be pleased to tell me what you mean to do. Would you betray the prince? Do you think the princess would have betrayed you to the king? Would you think yourself freed from your oaths? Take care, signora, or you may soon have reason to repent. Silesia ere long will be restored to Maria Theresa, who has not abandoned our plans, and who henceforth will be our best ally. Russia and France will certainly offer Prince Henry their hands. Madame de Pompadour has not forgotten the contempt of Frederick. A powerful coalition this, and a few years of strife may easily hurl from the throne the proud monarch who now maintains it by a thread. With the good will of the new monarch, you may reach a lofty position. The least, then, that can happen from all this is, that the Elector of Saxony may lose the Polish crown, and King Henry reign at Warsaw. Then——"
"Then, baron, there exists, in your opinion, a conspiracy which, to satisfy Prince Henry, is about to enkindle another European war! and that prince, to gratify his ambition, would not shrink from the shame of surrendering his country to a foreign rule! I can scarcely think such things possible. If you unfortunately speak the truth, I am much humiliated at the idea of being considered your accomplice. Let us be done with this comedy, I beg of you. For a quarter of an hour you have manœuvred very shrewdly to make me own crimes of which I am innocent. I have listened to ascertain what was the pretext for my being kept in prison. It remains still for me to find out why I have received the bitter hatred so basely exhibited against me. If you wish, I will try to vindicate myself. Until I do, I have nothing to reply to all you have said, except that you surprise me much, and that I sympathise with none of those schemes."
"Then, signora, if that be all you know, I am amazed at the volatility of the prince, who bade me speak plainly to you, before he was assured of your adhesion to his schemes."
"I repeat, baron, that I am utterly ignorant of the prince's plans; but I am sure that you never had any authority to speak to me one word about them. Excuse me for thus contradicting you. I respect your age, but cannot but contemn the terriblerôleyou have undertaken to play with me."
"I am never offended at the absurd suspicions of women," said Von Poelnitz, who could not now avow his falsehoods. "The time will come when you will do me justice. In the trouble of persecution, and with the bitter ideas created by a prison, it is not strange that you should not at once see clearly and distinctly. In conspiracies we must expect such blunders, especially from women. I pity and pardon you. It is possible, too, that in all this you are only the devoted friend of Baron Von Trenck, and a princess's confidant. These secrets are of too delicate a nature for me to be willing to speak of. On them, Prince Henry himself closes his eyes, though he is aware that all that has led his sister to join the conspiracy is the hope of Trenck's restoration."
"I am also ignorant of that, baron, and think, were you sincerely devoted to the august princess, you would not talk so strangely about her."
The noise of the wheels on the pavement terminated this conversation, much to the satisfaction of the baron, who was sadly perplexed for an expedient to extricate himself from the position he had assumed. They were going into the city. The singer was escorted to the stage and to her dressing-room, by two sentinels, who never lost sight of her. Although esteemed by her associates, she was coldly received, as none were bold enough to protest against this external testimonial of disgrace and royal disfavor. They were sad and constrained, acting as if afraid of contagion. Consuelo, attributing this to compassion, thought that in their faces she read the sentence of a long captivity. She sought to show them that she was not afraid, and appeared on the stage with bold confidence.