[12]Consuelo here gave some details we have already mentioned about the Swartz family. All that was mere repetition to the reader has been suppressed.
[12]Consuelo here gave some details we have already mentioned about the Swartz family. All that was mere repetition to the reader has been suppressed.
When Consuelo recovered from her unconscious state, she was delighted, although unaware of where she was, or how she had come thither. She was asleep in the open air, but without feeling any inconvenience from the cold of the night, and casting her eyes toward heaven, she saw the stars shining in the clear sky. To this enchanting prospect succeeded ere long a sensation of rapid but pleasant motion. The sound of the oars as they fell in the water at regular intervals, made her understand that she was in a boat, and was passing over the lake. A gentle heat penetrated her limbs, and in the placidity of the silent waters, where the breeze agitated numerous aquatic plants, something pleasant recalled the waters of Venice during the spring. Consuelo lifted up her languid head, looked around her and saw two rowers, one at each extremity of the boat. She looked at the citadel, and saw it in the distance, dark as a mountain of stone in the transparency of the water and sky. She said at once to herself that she was safe, remembered her friends, and pronounced Karl's name with anxiety. "Here I am, signora; not a word; be silent as possible," said Karl, who sat in front of her and rowed away. Consuelo fancied that the other oarsman was Gottlieb, and completely exhausted, she resumed her former attitude. Some one threw over her a soft and warm cloak: she threw it aside, however, that she might contemplate the starry sky which was unfolded above her.
As she felt her strength and the elasticity of her power, which had been paralysed by a violent nervous movement, return, she recovered her senses, and the remembrance of Mayer presented itself horribly to her. She made an effort to arouse herself again, and saw that her head rested on the knees of a third person, whom as yet she had not seen, or whom she had taken for a bale of goods, so completely was he wrapped up and buried in the boat.
Consuelo was terrified when she recalled the imprudent confidence Karl had exhibited to Mayer, and when she fancied the adjutant might be near her. The care he seemed to take appeared to aggravate the suspicions of the fugitive. She was confused at having reposed on that man's bosom, and almost reproached herself for having enjoyed under his protection a few moments of healthful and ineffable oblivion.
Fortunately the boat touched the shore just then, and Consuelo hastened to take Karl's hand and to step on shore. The shock, however, of the boat touching the shore, made her tremble, and almost fall into the arms of this mysterious person. She then saw him rise, and discovered that he wore a black mask. He was at least a head taller than Mayer, and though wrapped in a large cloak, had the appearance of being tall and thin. These circumstances completely assured the fugitive, and she accepted the arm which was silently offered her. She then walked about fifty paces on the strand, followed by Karl and another individual, who by signs had enjoined on her not to say a single word. The country was silent and deserted, and not the slightest sound was heard in the citadel. Behind the thicket was a coach with four horses, into which the stranger went with Consuelo. Karl got on the box, and the third individual disappeared without Consuelo having noticed him. She yielded to the silent anxiety of her liberators, and ere long the carriage, which was excellent and admirably built, rolled on with the rapidity of lightning. The noise of the wheels, and the rapidity of conveyance, did not at all contribute to conversation. Consuelo was intimidated, she was even terrified at atête-à-têtewith the stranger. When she saw that there was no danger, she thought it her duty to express her gratitude and joy. She obtained no answer, however. He sat in front of her as a token of respect; he took her hand and clasped it in his, but said nothing. He then sank into the recess of the carriage, and Consuelo, who had begun the conversation, dared say nothing, and did not venture to persist on his silent refusal. She was very anxious to know what generous friend had secured her safety, yet she experienced for him, she knew not why, an instinctive sentiment of respect, mingled with fear, and her imagination attributed to this strange travelling-companion all the romance which the state of the case might have induced her to expect. At last the idea occurred to her that he was some subaltern agent of the Invisibles, and perhaps a faithful servant, who was afraid of violating his duty by speaking alone to her at night.
After having travelled for about two hours with great rapidity, the coach stopped in a dark wood, the relay not having come. The stranger went a few steps away, either to see if the horses were coming, or to conceal his uneasiness. Consuelo also left the carriage and walked down the road with Karl, of whom she had a thousand questions to ask.
"Thank God, signora," said her faithful attendant, "that you are alive."
"And that you, too, are alive."
"Now that you are safe, why should I not?"
"Where is Gottlieb?"
"I expect he is now in bed at Spandau."
"Heavens! Gottlieb left behind? He will then suffer for us."
"He will suffer neither for himself nor for any one else. The alarm having been given, I know not by whom, I hurried at all risks to find you, seeing that the time was come to risk all for all. I met the adjutant Nauteuil, that is to say, Mayer, the recruiting officer, very pale."
"You met him? Was he up and able to walk?"
"Why not?"
"He was wounded then?"
"Ah, yes. He told me he had hurt himself by falling, in the dark, on a stack of arms. I did not pay much attention to him, and asked where you were. He knew nothing, and seemed out of his mind. I almost thought he had intended to betray us, for the clock which sounded, the tone of which I know perfectly, is the one that hangs over his quarters. He seems to have changed his mind, for the creature knows much money is to be made by your escape. He then aided me in turning aside the attention of the garrison, by telling all he met that Gottlieb had another attack of somnambulism, and had caused another false alarm. In fact, as if Gottlieb wished to make good his words, we found him asleep in a corner, in the strange way in which he often does by day. Never mind where he is. One might have thought the agitation of his flight made him sleep, or he may by mistake have drank a few drops of the liquor I poured out so plentifully to his parents. What I know is, that they shut him up in the first room they came to, to keep him from walking on the glacis, and I thought it best to leave him there. No one can accuse him of anything, and my escape will be a sufficient explanation of your own. The Swartzes were too sound asleep to hear the bell, and no one has been to your room to ascertain whether it was open or shut. The alarm will not be serious until to-morrow. Nauteuil assisted me in dissipating it, and I set out to look for you, pretending the while to go to my dormitory. I was fortunate in finding you about three paces from the door we had to pass through. The keepers there were all bribed. At first I was afraid you were dead; but living or not, I would not leave you there. I took you without difficulty to the boat, which waited for you outside of the ditch. Then a very disagreeable thing happened, which I will tell you on some other occasion. You have had emotion enough to-day, and what I am thinking of might give you much trouble——"
"No, no, Karl, I wish to know all. I can hear all."
"Ah, I know you, signora. You will blame me. I remember Roswald, where you prevented me from——"
"Karl, your silence would distress me cruelly. Speak, I beseech you. I wish you to do so."
"Well, signora, it is a misfortune; but if it be a sin, it rests on me alone. As I was passing beneath a low arch in the boat with you and as I was going very slowly and had come to the end of it, I was seized by three men, who took me by the throat, and sprang into the boat. I must tell you that the person who travels with us, and is one of us, was imprudent enough to give two-thirds of the sum to Nauteuil, as we passed the postern. Nauteuil, thinking, beyond doubt, that he should be satisfied and could get the rest by betraying us, had posted himself with two good-for-nothing fellows of the sort to seize us. That is the reason beyond doubt, why they sought to murder us. Your friend, however, signora, is a lion in combat, peaceable as he seems I will remember him for many a day. By two twists of his arms he threw the first into the water; the second became afraid and leaped back on the bridge, looking on the result of my contest with the adjutant. I did not manage as well as his lordship, whose name I do not know. It lasted half a minute, and the affair does me no credit, for Nauteuil, who usually is as strong as a bull, appeared stiff and enfeebled, as if the wound of which he spoke annoyed him. At last, feeling him let go, I just dipped his feet in the water. His lordship then said, 'Do not kill him, it is useless.' I had recognised him, however, and was aware how well he could swim. Besides, I had fell his gripe, and had some old accounts to settle with him, and I could not refrain from giving him a blow on the head with my fist. Never again will he give or take another. May God have mercy on his soul and mine! He went down in the water like a flounder, and did not rise again, any more than if he had been marble. The other fellow whom his lordship had sent on a similar excursion, had made a dive, and had already reached the bank, where his companion, the most prudent of the three, helped him out. This was not easy, the bank at that place being so narrow that there was not a good footing, and the two went into the water together. While they were thus contending together, and swearing, as they enjoyed their swimming party, I rowed away, and soon came to a place where a second oarsman, a fisherman by trade, had promised to be in waiting and help me by a stroke or two to cross the pond. It was very well, signora, that I took it into my head to play the sailor on the gentle waters of Roswald. I did not know, when I rehearsed the part before you, that I would one day for your sake participate in a naval battle not so magnificent but much more serious. All this passed over my mind as I was on the water, and I could not help laughing like a fool—disagreeably, too. I did not make any noise, at least I did not hear myself, but my teeth chattered. I had an iron hand on my throat, and the sweat, cold as ice, ran over my brow. I then saw that a man is not killed like a fly. He was not the first one, however, for I have been a soldier, and at war one fights. Instead of that, in a corner there, behind a wall, it looked like a premeditated murder. Yet it was a legitimate case of self-defence. You remember, signora, without you I would have done it, but I do not know if I would not have repented afterwards. One thing is sure, I had an awful laughing fit on the pool; and now I cannot help it, for it was so strange to stick the fellow in the ditch, like a twig planted in a vase, after I had crushed his head with my fist. Mercy! how ugly he was! I see him now!"
Consuelo, fearing the effect of this terrible emotion on Karl, overcame her own feelings, and attempted to soothe and calm him. Karl by nature was calm and mild, as a Bohemian serf naturally is. The tragical life into which fate had thrown him was not made for him. He accomplished acts of energy and revenge, yet suffered the horror of remorse. Consuelo diverted him from his moody thoughts, perhaps to change her own. She also had armed herself on that night to slay. She had struck a blow, and had shed the blood of an impure victim. An upright and pious mind cannot approach the thought or conceive the resolution of homicide, without cursing and deploring the circumstances which place honor and life under the safeguard of the poniard. Consuelo was terror-stricken, and did not dare to say that her liberty was worth the price she had paid for it. It had cost the life of a man—a guilty one, it is true.
"Poor Karl," said she, "we have played the executioner to-night. It is terrible! but console yourself with the idea that we have neither foreseen nor determined on what fate exacted. Tell me about the nobleman who has toiled so generously to rescue me. Do you know him?"
"Not at all, signora. I never saw him before, and do not even know his name."
"Whither does he take us?"
"I do not know, signora. He forbade me to ask; and I was ordered to say that if on the route you made any attempt to ascertain where you are, and whither you are going, he would be forced to leave you. It is certain that he wishes us well, and I have made up my mind to be treated like a child."
"Have you seen his face?"
"I saw it by the light of a lantern, just when I put you into the boat. His face is handsome—I never saw one more so. One might think him a king."
"Is that all? Is he young?"
"About thirty years old."
"What is his language?"
"Free Bohemian—the true tongue of a Christian. He only spoke three or four words to me. What a pleasure it was to hear the dear old tongue, had he not said 'Do not kill him, it is useless.' Ah! he was mistaken. It was necessary!"
"What did he say, when you adopted that terrible alternative?"
"I think, may God pardon me! that he did not see it. He threw himself on the bottom of the boat, where you lay as if you were dead; apparently fearing some injury might befall you, he covered you with his body; and when we were on the open water and safe, he lifted you up, wrapped you in a cloak he had brought apparently for the purpose, and pressed you against his heart as a mother would press a child. He seems very fond of you, signora, and you must know him."
"Perhaps I do; but I have not been able to see his face."
"It is strange that he conceals himself from you. Nothing astonishes me in those people, however."
"What people?"
"Those called the Knights—the Black Masks—the Invisibles. I scarcely know more than you do about them, signora, though for two months they have led me by a thread any where they pleased."
The sound of hoofs on the ground was heard; and in two minutes they were harnessed again, and another postilion, who did not belong to the royal service appeared, and exchanged a few words with the stranger. The latter gave his hand to Consuelo, who returned to the carriage with him. He sat as far from her as possible; but did not interrupt the solemn silence of the night by a single word, and only looked from time to time at his watch. It was not near day, though the sound of the quail in the briar was heard, and also the watchdog's distant bark. The night was magnificent, and the constellation of the Great Bear appeared reversed on the horizon. The sound of wheels stifled the harmonious voices of the country, and they turned their backs to the great northern stars. Consuelo saw she was going southward; and as Karl sat on the box he attempted to shake off the spectre of Mayer, which he fancied he saw floating through the alleys of the forest, at the foot of the crosses, or under the tall pines. He did not, consequently, observe the direction in which his good or bad stars led him.
Porporina, fancying that he had determined not to exchange a word with her, thought she could not do better than respect the strange vow which, like the old knight-errants, he seemed to be resolved to keep. To get rid of the sombre images and sad reflections suggested by Karl's story, she attempted to penetrate the unknown future which opened before her, and gradually sunk into a reverie full of charms. A few rare persons have the power of commanding their ideas in a state of contemplative idleness. Consuelo had often, during her three months' confinement at Spandau, had occasion to exert this faculty, which is granted less frequently to the happy in this world than to those who earn their living by toil, persecution, and danger. All must recognise this mystery as providential, without which the serenity of many unfortunate creatures would appear impossible to those who have not known misfortune.
Our fugitive was indeed in a condition strange enough to lay the foundations of many castles in the air. The mystery which surrounded her like a cloud, the fatality which led her into a fantastic world, the kind of paternal love which surrounded her with miracles, were quite sufficient to charm an imagination instinct with poetry as hers was. She recalled those words of holy writ, which in her imprisonment she had set to music:—"I shall send one of my angels to thee, and he shall bear thee in his hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. I walk in darkness, yet I walk without fear, for the Lord is with me." Thenceforth those words acquired a more distinct and divine signification. At a time when there is no faith in direct revelation, and in the sensible manifestation of the divinity, the protection and manifestations of heaven are translated by the affections, assistance, and devotion of our fellow-creatures. There is something so delicious in the abandonment of our conduct to those we love, and so to say, in feeling ourselves sustained by others. This happiness is so exquisite, that it would soon corrupt us, if we did not resist the disposition to abuse it. It is the happiness of a child, the golden dreams of whom are troubled, as it slumbers on its mother's bosom, by none of the apprehensions of human life.
These thoughts, which presented themselves like dreams to Consuelo on the occasion of her sudden escape from such a painful condition, wrapped her in such voluptuous calm, that sleep at last came to drown her sensations, in that kind of repose of body and mind which may be called pleasant and delicious annihilation. She had entirely forgotten the presence of her mute travelling companion, and awoke, finding herself near him, with her head leaning on his shoulder. At first she did not move, dreaming that she was travelling with her mother, and that the arm which sustained her was the Zingara's. When completely aroused, she was confused at her inadvertence. The arm of the stranger, however, was become a magic chain. Secretly she made vain attempts to get loose. The stranger seemed to sleep also, and had received his companion mechanically in his arms, as she sank in them overcome by fatigue and the motion of the coach. He had clasped his hands around Consuelo, as if to preserve her from falling while he slept. His sleep had not relaxed the force of his clasped hands, and it would have been necessary to have waked him to extricate herself. This Consuelo did not dare to do. She hoped he would voluntarily release her, and that she might return to her place without seeming to have remarked the delicate circumstances of their situation.
The stranger slept soundly, and Consuelo, whom the calmness of his breathing, and the immobility of his repose, had restored to confidence, went to sleep herself, being completely overcome by the exhaustion which succeeds violent agitation. When she awoke again, the head of her companion was pressed to hers, his mask was off, their faces touched, and their breathing was intermingled. She made a brisk effort to withdraw, without thinking to look at the features of the stranger, which would indeed have been difficult in the darkness. The stranger pressed Consuelo to his bosom, the heat of which was communicated to her own, and deprived her of the power and wish to remove. There was nothing violent or brutal in the embrace of this man. Chastity was neither offended nor sullied by his caresses, and Consuelo, as if a charm had been thrown around her, forgetting her prudence, and one might also say, the virginal coldness which she had never been tempted to part with, even in the arms of the fiery Anzoleto, returned the eager and enthusiastic kiss of the stranger.
As all about this mysterious being seemed strange and unusual, the involuntary transport of Consuelo seemed neither to surprise, to embolden, nor to intoxicate him. He yet pressed her closely to his bosom, and though he did so with unusual power, she did not feel the pain such an embrace usually inflicts on a delicate being. Neither was she sensible of the shame so great a forgetfulness of her habitual modesty would usually have created. No idea came to disturb the ineffable security of this moment of mutual and miraculous love. It was the first of her life. She was aware of the instinct, or rather it was revealed to her, and the charm was so complete, so divine, that it seemed impossible for it to be changed. He passed the extremity of his fingers, which were softer than the leaf of a flower, over the lids of Consuelo, and at once she sank to sleep again, as if by enchantment. On this occasion he remained awake, but apparently as calm as if the arrows of temptation never had entered his bosom. He bore Consuelo, she knew not whither, as an archangel might bear on his wings a seraph, amazed at the Godhead's radiation.
Dawn, and the freshness of morning, roused Consuelo from this kind of lethargy. She found herself alone in the carriage, and doubted if she had not dreamed that she loved. She sought to let down one of the blinds; they were, however, fastened by an external spring, the secret of which she did not know. She could receive air through them, and see flit by her, in broken and confused lines, the white and green margin of the road, but could make no observation nor discovery as to the route. There was something absolute and despotical in the protection extended over her. It was like a forcible carrying away, and she began to be afraid.
The stranger had disappeared, and the poor sinner became aware of all the anguish of shame, stupor and astonishment. Few theatre-girls (thus singers and dancers were then called) would have been thus annoyed by a kiss given in the dark to a very discreet stranger, especially after having been assured by Karl, as Porporina had been that her companion was of admirable figure and form. This act of folly was so repugnant to the manner and ideas of the prudent and good Consuelo, that she was greatly mortified by it. She asked pardon of Albert's manes, and blushed deeply at having in heart been unfaithful to his memory in so forward and thoughtless a manner. The tragical events of the night, and joy at her escape, she thought must have made her delirious. "Besides, how could I fancy that I entertained any love for a man who never spoke to me, and the face of whom I never saw. It is like one of the shameless adventures of masked balls, the possibility of which in another woman I could never conceive. What contempt this man must have conceived for me! If he did not take advantage of my error, it was because I was under the safeguard of his honor, or else an oath binds him to higher duties. Perhaps even he disdains me. Perhaps he guessed or saw that my conduct was the consequence of fever or delirium!"
In vain did Consuelo thus reproach herself; she could not resist a better feeling, which was more intense than all the pricks of conscience. She regretted having lost a companion whom she knew she had neither the right nor power to blame. He was impressed on her mind as a superior being, invested with magical, perhaps infernal power, which also was resistless. She was afraid, yet regretted that they had separated so suddenly.
The carriage went slowly, and Karl came to open the blind, "If you incline to walk a little, signora, the chevalier will be pleased. The road is very bad, and as we are in the woods, it seems there is no danger."
Consuelo leaned on Karl's shoulder, and sprang out on the sand without allowing him time to let down the steps. She was anxious to see her travelling companion, her improvised lover. She saw him, ere long, about thirty paces from her, with his back turned and wearing the vast grey cloak which he seemed determined to wear by day as well as by night. His bearing and the small portion of his head and extremities which were visible, announced a person of high distinction, and one anxious, by a studious toilette, to enhance the advantages of his person. The hilt of his sword, on which the rays of the morning sun shone, glittered on his side like a star, and the perfume of the powder, which well-bred people were then very fond of, left behind him in the morning air the trace of a man perfectlycomme il faut.
"Alas!" thought Consuelo, "he is, perhaps, some fool, or contraband lord, or haughty noble: whoever he be, he turns his back on me, and is right."
"Why do you call him theChevalier?" asked she of Karl, continuing her reflections aloud.
"Because I heard the drivers call him so."
"TheChevalierof what?"
"That is all. Why, signora, do you wish to find out? Since he wishes to be unknown, it seems to me that he renders you sufficient service at the risk of his own life, to insure your suppression of curiosity. For my part I would travel ten years without asking whither he wished to take me; he is so brave, so good, so gay."
"So gay! That man so gay?"
"Certainly. He is so delighted at having aided you, that he cannot be silent. He asked a thousand questions about Spandau, yourself, Gottlieb, myself, and the King of Prussia. I told him all I knew, all that had happened, and even of Roswald: it does a man so much good to talk Bohemian to one who understands you, instead of speaking to those Prussians, who know no tongue but their own."
"He is a Bohemian, then?"
"I ventured to ask that question, and he answered briefly and rather dryly. I was wrong to question him, instead of answering his questions."
"Is he always masked?"
"Only when he is with you. Ah! he is a strange person, and evidently seeks to tease you."
Karl's good humor and confidence, however, did not altogether reassure Consuelo. She saw that he united, to much bravery and determination, an honesty and simplicity of heart, which could easily be abused. Had he not relied on Mayer's good faith? Had he not even put her in that scoundrel's room? Now he yielded blindly to a stranger, and was conveying Consuelo away, so that she would be exposed to the most dangerous influences. She remembered the note of the Invisibles: "A snare is set for you—a new danger menaces you. Distrust any one who shall attempt to induce you to fly before we give you certain information,"&c. No note had come to confirm that, and Consuelo, delighted at having met Karl, thought this worthy servant sufficiently authorised to serve her. Was not the stranger a traitor? whither was she so mysteriously taken? Consuelo had no friend who at all resembled the fine figure of the Chevalier, except Frederick Von Trenck. Karl knew the baron perfectly, and he was not her travelling companion. The Count de Saint Germain and Cagliostro were not so tall. While she looked at the stranger in search of something which would identify him, Consuelo came to the conclusion that she had never in her life seen any one with so much grace and ease. Albert alone had as much majesty; but his slow step and habitual despondency had not that air of strength, that activity and chivalric power, which characterised the stranger.
The woods became light and the horses began to trot, to catch up with the travellers who had preceded them. The Chevalier, without turning round, reached out his arm and shook his handkerchief which was whiter than snow. Karl understood the signal and put Consuelo in the carriage, saying, "Apropos, signora, in the boxes under the seats you will find linen, apparel, and all that you need to dress and eat when you please. There are books there, also. It seems that the carriage is a hotel on wheels, and that you will not leave it soon."
"Karl," said Consuelo, "I beg of you to ask the Chevalier if I will be free as soon as I shall have passed the frontier, to thank him and to go whithersoever I please."
"Signora, I cannot dare to say so unkind a thing to so polite a man."
"I require you to do so. You will give me his answer at the next relay since he will not speak to me."
The stranger said the lady was perfectly free, and that her wishes were orders. He said that her safety and that of her guide, as well as of Karl, demanded that she should oppose no difficulty to the selection of her route and her asylum. Karl added, with an air ofnaïfreproof, that this distrust seemed to mortify the Chevalier very much, and that he had become sad and melancholy.
The whole day passed without any incident. Shut up in the carriage as close as if she were a prisoner of state, Consuelo could form no idea about the direction she travelled. She changed her clothes with great satisfaction, for she saw with disgust several drops of Mayer's black blood on her dress. She sought to read, but her mind was too busy. She determined to sleep as soon as possible, hoping in this manner to forget the sooner the mortification of her last adventure.Heevidently had not forgotten it, and his respectful delicacy made Consuelo yet more ridiculous and guilty in her own opinion. At the same time she was distressed at the inconvenience and fatigue which he bore in a seat too narrow for two persons, side by side with a great soldier disguised as a servant,comme il fautcertainly, but whose tedious and dull conversation must necessarily be annoying to him. Besides, he was exposed to the fresh air of the night, and was deprived of sleep. This courage might be presumption. Did he think himself irresistible? Did he think that Consuelo, recovered from the first surprise, would not resist his by far too paternal familiarity?
The poor girl said all this to console her downcast pride. It is very certain that she desired to see the Chevalier, and feared above all things his disdain at the triumphs of an excess of virtue which would have rendered them strangers to each other forever.
About midnight they halted in a ravine. The weather was bad, and the noise of the wind in the foliage was like running water. "Signora," said Karl, opening the door, "we are now come to the most inconvenient portion of our journey. We must pass the frontier. With money and boldness it is possible to do anything. Yet it would not be prudent to attempt to do so on the highroad, and under the eyes of the police. I am no one, and risk nothing. I will drive the carriage slowly with a single horse, as if I took a new purchase of my master to a neighboring estate. You will take a cross-road with the Chevalier, and may find the pathway difficult. Can you walk a league over a bad road?"
Consuelo having said yes, the Chevalier gave her his arm. "If you reach the place of rendezvous before me, signora," said Karl, "you will wait for me, and will not be afraid."
"I am afraid of nothing," said Consuelo with a tone of mingled tenderness and pride, "for this gentleman protects me. But, Karl, do you run no risk?"
Karl shrugged his shoulders, and kissed Consuelo's hand. He then began to fix his horse, and our heroine set out across the country with her silent protector.
The weather became worse and worse. The wind began to blow more violently, and our two fugitives walked for about half an hour, sometimes across the briars, and then across the tall grass. At last the rain became violent. Consuelo, as yet, had not said a word to her companion, but seeing him uneasy about her, and looking for a shelter, she said, "Do not be afraid on my account, Monsieur. I am strong, and only suffer from seeing you exposed to such fatigue and care for a person who is nothing to you, and for whom you do not care."
The stranger made a gesture of joy at the sight of a ruined house, in one corner of which he contrived to shelter his companion from the torrents of rain. The roof had been taken away and the space sheltered by the masonry was so small, that unless he stood close to Consuelo, the stranger was forced to receive all the rain. He, however, respected her condition, and went so far away as to banish all fear. Consuelo, however, would not consent to accept his self-denial. She called him, and seeing that he would not come, left her shelter, and said, in a tone she sought to make joyous, "Every one has his turn, Chevalier. I now will soak for a time. If you will not share with me, take a shelter yourself."
The Chevalier wished to lead Consuelo back to the place about which this amicable contest occurred. She resisted, however, and said, "No, I will not yield. I see that I offended you to-day, by expressing a wish to leave you at the frontier. I will atone for my offence at the expense of a severe cold even."
The Chevalier yielded, and sheltered himself. Consuelo, seeing that she owed him reparation, came to his side, though she was humbled at the idea of having to make advances to him. She had rather seem volatile than ungrateful, and, as an expiation of her fault, resolved to be submissive. The stranger understood this so well, that he stood as far from her as the small space they occupied would permit, and it was only two or three feet square. Leaning against the wall, he pretended to look away, lest he should annoy and trouble her by his anxiety. Consuelo was amazed that a man sentenced to silence, and who inflicted this punishment to a degree on himself, should divine and understand her so well. Every moment augmented her esteem for him, and this strange feeling made her heart beat so, that it was with great difficulty that she could breathe the air this man, who so strangely sympathised with her, inhaled.
After a quarter of an hour the storm became so lulled that the two travellers could resume their journey. The paths were thoroughly wet, and had become almost impassable for a woman. The Chevalier for some moments suffered Consuelo to slip, and almost fall. Suddenly, as if weary of seeing her fatigue herself, he took her in his arms, and supported her as easily as if she had been a child. She reproached him for doing so, it is true, but her reproaches never amounted to resistance. Consuelo felt fascinated and overpowered. She was transported by the cavalier through the wind and the storm, and he was not unlike the spirit of night, crossing ravines and thickets with as rapid and certain a step as if he had been immaterial. Then they came to the ford of a small stream, where the stranger took Consuelo in his arms, raising her up as the water became deep.
Unfortunately the torrents of rain had been so rapid, that the course of the rivulet was swollen, and it became a torrent, rolling in foam, and roaring turbulently. It was already up to the knight's belt, and in his efforts to sustain Consuelo, she feared that his feet, which were in the slimy mire of the bed of the streamlet, would slip. She became alarmed for his sake, and said, "For heaven's sake let me go; let me go—I can swim!"
Just then a violent blast of wind threw down one of the trees on the bank, towards which our travellers went, and this brought down an avalanche of stones and mud, which for a moment made a natural dike against the torrent. The tree had luckily fallen across the river, and the stranger was beginning to breathe, when the water, making a passage for itself, rushed into one headlong, mad current, against which it was impossible for him to contend any longer. He paused, and Consuelo sought to get out of his arms. "Leave me," said she; "I do not wish to be the cause of your death. I am strong, and bold also. Let me struggle for myself!"
The Chevalier, however, pressed her the closer to his heart. One might have fancied that he intended to die with her. She was afraid of his black mask—of this man, silent as the water-spirits of the old German ballads, who wished to drag her below with him. For more than a quarter of an hour the stranger contended with the fury of the wind and storm with a coolness and obstinacy which were really frightful, sustaining Consuelo above the water, and not advancing more than a single step in four or five minutes. He contemplated his situation calmly. It was as difficult for him to advance as to withdraw, for if he did the water might sweep him away. At last he reached the bank, and walked on, without permitting Consuelo to put her foot on the ground. He did not even pause to take breath, until he heard Karl, who was waiting anxiously for him, whistle. He then gave his precious burden into the arms of the deserter, and almost overpowered, sank on the ground. He was able only to sigh, not breathe, and it seemed as though his breast would burst. "Oh! my God, Karl!" said Consuelo, bending over him, "he will die! Listen to the death-rattle! Take off that mask, which suffocates him!"
Karl was about to obey, but the stranger by a painful effort, lifted up his icy hands, and seized that of the deserter. "True!" said Karl, "my oath, signora. I swore to him that even were he to die in your presence, I would not touch his mask. Hurry to the carriage, signora, and bring me the flask of brandy which is on the seat; a few drops will relieve him. Consuelo sought to go, but the Chevalier restrained her. If he were about to die, he wished to expire at her feet.
"That is right," said Karl, who, notwithstanding his rude manners, understood all love's mysteries, for he had loved himself. "You can attend to him better than I can. I will go for the flask. Listen, signora," he continued, in a low tone; "I believe if you loved him, and were kind enough to say so, that he will not die; otherwise I cannot promise."
Karl went away smiling. He did not share Consuelo's terror. He saw that the suffocating sensation of the Chevalier was becoming allayed. Consuelo was terror-stricken, and fancying she witnessed the death agony of this generous man, folded him in her arms, and covered his broad brow—the only part of his face the mask did not cover—with kisses.
"I conjure you," said she, "remove that mask. I will not look at you. Do so, and you will be able to breathe."
The stranger took Consuelo's two hands and placed them on his panting bosom, as much to feel their sweet warmth as to allay her anxiety to aid by unmasking him. At that moment all the young woman's soul was in that chaste embrace. She remembered what Karl had said, in a half growling and half softened mood.
"Do not die," said she; "do not die. Do you not see that I love you?"
Scarcely had she uttered these words than they seemed to have fallen from her in a dream. They had escaped her lips in spite of herself. The Chevalier had heard them. He made an effort to rise. He fell on his knees, and embraced those of Consuelo, who, in her agitation shed tears.
Karl returned with the flask. The Chevalier refused the favorite specific of the deserter, and leaning on him reached the coach, where Consuelo sat by him. She was much troubled at the cold, which could not but be communicated to him by his damp clothes.
"Do not be afraid, signora," said Karl, "the Chevalier has not had time to grow cold. I will wrap him up in his cloak, which I took care to put in the carriage when I saw the rain coming. I was sure he would be damp. When one has become wet, and puts on dry apparel over all, heat is preserved for a long time. It is as if you were in a warm bath, and it is not at all unhealthy."
"You, Karl, do the same thing; and take my mantle, for you have also got wet."
"I? Ah! my skin is thicker than yours. Put your mantle on the Chevalier; pack him up well; and if I kill the poor horse, I will hurry on to the next relay."
For an hour Consuelo kept her arms around the stranger; and her head resting on his bosom, filled him with life far sooner than all the receipts and prescriptions of Karl. She sometimes felt his brow, and warmed it with her breath, in order that the perspiration which hung on it might not be chilled. When the carriage paused, he clasped her to his breast with a power that showed he was in all the plenitude of life and health. He then let down the steps hastily, and disappeared.
Consuelo found herself beneath a kind of shed, face to face with an old servant, half peasant in his appearance, who bore a dark lantern, and led her by a pathway, bordered by a hedge, to an ordinary-looking house, a kind of summer retreat, the door of which he shut, after having ushered her in. Seeing a second door open, she went into a little room, which was very clean, and simply divided into two parts. One was a well-warmed chamber, with a good bed all prepared; and in the other was a light and comfortable supper. She noticed with sorrow that there was but one cover, and when Karl came to offer to serve her, she did not dare to tell him the only thing she wished was the company of her friend and protector.
"Eat and sleep yourself, Karl," said she, "I need nothing. You must be more fatigued than I am."
"I am no more fatigued than if I had done nothing but say my prayers by the hearthside with my poor wife, to whom may the Lord grant peace! How happy was I when I saw myself outside of Prussia; though to tell the truth, I do not know if I am in Saxony, Bohemia, Poland, or in China, as we used to say at Roswald, Count Hoditz's place."
"How is it possible, Karl, that you could sit on the box of the carriage, and not know a single place you passed through?"
"Because I never travelled this route before, signora; and I cannot read what is written on the bridges and signboards. Besides, we did not stop in any city or village, and always found our relays in the forest, or in the courtyard of some private house. There is also another reason, signora—I promised the Chevalier not to tell you."
"You should have mentioned that reason first, Karl, and I would not object. But tell me, does the Chevalier seem sick?"
"Not all, signora. He goes and comes about the house, which does not seem to do any great business, for I see no other face than that of the silent old gardener."
"Go and offer to help him, Karl. I can dispense with you."
"Why, he has already refused my services, and bade me attend to you."
"Well, mind your own affairs, then, my friend, and dream of liberty."
Consuelo went to bed about dawn, and when she had dressed, she saw by her watch that it was two o'clock. The day seemed clear and brilliant. She attempted to open the blinds, but in both rooms they were shut by a secret spring, like those of the post-chaise in which she had travelled. She sought to go out, but the doors were fastened on the outside. She went to the window, and saw a portion of a moderate orchard. Nothing announced the vicinity of a city or a travelled road. The silence of the house was complete. On the outside nothing was heard but the hum of insects, the cooing of pigeons on the roof, and from time to time the plaintive creaking of the wheelbarrow, where her eye could not reach. She listened mechanically to these agreeable sounds, for her ear had long been deprived of the sounds of rustic life. Consuelo was yet a prisoner, and the anxiety with which she was concealed gave her a great deal of unhappiness. She resigned herself for the time to a captivity the aspect of which was so gentle; and she was not so afraid of the love of the Chevalier as of Mayer.
Though Karl had told her to ring for him as soon as she was up, she was unwilling to disturb him, thinking he needed a longer sleep than she did. She was also afraid to awaken her other companion, whose fatigue must have been excessive. She then went into the room next to her chamber, and instead of the meal which she left on the previous evening, there was a collection of books and writing materials.
The books did not tempt her. She was far too much agitated to use them. But amid all her perplexity, she was delighted at being able to retrace the events of the previous night. Gradually the idea suggested itself, as she was yet kept in solitary confinement, to continue her journal, and she wrote the following preamble on a loose sheet:—
"Dear Beppo—For you alone I resume the story of my strange adventures. Accustomed to speak to you with the expansion of heart inspired by the conformity of ages and ideas, I can confide to you emotions my other friends would not understand, and would perhaps judge more severely. This commencement will tell you that I do not feel myself free from error. I have erred in my own opinion, but as yet I cannot appreciate the consequences.
"Joseph, before I tell you bow I escaped from Spandau, (which indeed appears trifling compared with what now occupies me), I must tell you... How can I? I do not know myself. Have I dreamed? I know that my heart burns and my brain quivers as if it would rush from me and take possession of another frame. I will tell you the story simply; for the whole truth, my friend, is contained in the simple phrase—I love!
"I love a stranger! a man, the sound of whose voice I have never heard! You will say this is folly. You are right; for love is but systematic folly. Listen, Joseph, and do not doubt that my happiness surpasses all the illusions of my first love, and that my ecstacy is too intoxicating to permit me to be ashamed at having so madly assented and foolishly placed my love, that I know not if I will be loved in return. Ah! I am loved! I feel it so well! Be certain that I am not mistaken; that now I love truly—I may say, madly! Why not? Does not love come from God? It does not depend on us to kindle it in our hearts, as we light a torch at the altar. All my efforts to love Albert, (whose name I now tremble to write,) were not sufficient to enkindle that ardent and pure flame. Since I lost him I loved his memory better than I ever did his person. Who knows how I could love him, were he restored to me again?"
Scarcely had Consuelo written these last words than she effaced them, not so much that they might not be read, as to shake off a feeling of horror at having ever suffered them to enter her mind. She was greatly excited, and the truth of the inspiration of love betrayed itself in spite of her wishes, in all her inmost thoughts. In vain she wished to continue to write, that she might more fully explain to herself the mystery of her heart. She found nothing that could more distinctly render its delicate shades than the words, "Who knows how I could love him, were he restored to me?"
Consuelo could be false. She had fancied that she loved the memory of a dead man with real love; but she now felt life overflowing in her heart, and a real passion take the place of an imaginary one.
She sought to read again all that she had written, and thus to recover from her disorder of mind. But it was in vain. Despairing of being able to enjoy calm enough to control herself, and aware that the effort would give her a fever, she crushed the sheet she had written in her hands, and threw it on the table until she might be able to burn it. Trembling like a criminal, with her face in a blaze, she paid attention to nothing, except that she loved, and that henceforth she could not doubt it. Some one knocked at the door of her room, and she went to admit Karl. His face was heated, his eyes haggard, and his jaws hanging. She thought him over-fatigued; but from his answers, soon saw that he had drank, in honor of his safe arrival, too much of his host's wine. This was Karl's only defect. One dram made him as confident as possible; another made him terrible.
He talked of the Chevalier, who seemed the only subject on his mind. He was so good, so kind. He made Karl sit down, instead of waiting at the table. He had insisted on his sharing his meal, and had poured out the best wine for him, ringing his glass with him, and holding up his head, as if he were a true Sclave.
"What a pity he is an Italian! He deserves to be a real Bohemian; for he carries wine as well as I do," said Karl.
"That is not saying much," said Consuelo, who was not highly charmed at the Chevalier measuring cups with a soldier. She soon, however, reproached herself for having thought Karl inferior to her and her friends, after the services he had done her. Besides, it was certainly to make him talk of her that the stranger had associated with her servant. Karl's conversation soon showed her that she was not mistaken.
"Oh! signora," added he simply, "this good young man is mad with love for you, and would commit even crime and incur disgrace to serve you."
"I will excuse him," said Consuelo, whom these expressions greatly displeased. Karl did not understand. She then said, "Can you explain why I am shut up here?"
"Ah! signora, did I know, I would have my tongue cut out rather than tell. I promised the Chevalier to answer none of your questions."
"Thank you. Then you love the Chevalier better than you do me?"
"Not so. I said not so, but since he satisfied me that he is in your interests, I must serve you in spite of yourself."
"How so?"
"I do not know; but I am sure it is so. He has ordered me, signora, to shut you up, to watch you, to keep you a prisoner until we come to——"
"Then we do not stay here?"
"We go at night. We will not travel by day, to save you from fatigue, and for other reasons I know nothing of."
"And you are to be my jailer?"
"I swore so on the bible, signora."
"Well, this Chevalier is a strange person. I am helpless then; but for a jailer I like you better than I did Herr Swartz."
"I will treat you better," said Karl kindly. "Now I will get your dinner."
"I want none, Karl."
"That is not possible. You must dine—and well, too. Such are my orders. You know what Swartz said about orders."
"Take him as your model, and you will not make me eat. He was only anxious I should pay."
"That was his business; but with me things are different. That concern is the chevalier's. He is not mean, for he scatters gold by handsful. He must be rich, or his fortune will not last."
Consuelo asked for a light, and went into the next room to burn what she had written, but during her absence it had disappeared.
A few moments afterwards Karl returned with a letter, the writing of which was unknown to Consuelo. It ran as follows:—
"I leave you, perhaps never to see you again. I relinquish three days I might pass with you—three days, the like of which I shall perhaps never see again. I renounce them voluntarily. I should do so. You will one day appreciate the sacrifice I make, and its purity.
"Yes, I love you—I love you madly, though I know no more of you than you do of me. Do not thank me for what I have done. I obeyed supreme instructions, and accomplished the orders with which I am charged. Attribute to me nothing but the love I entertain for you, which I can prove in no other manner than by leaving you. This love is as ardent as it has been respectful. It will be durable as it has been sudden and unexpected. I have scarcely seen your face; I know nothing of your life; yet I felt that my soul belonged to you, and that I can never resume it. Had your past conduct been as sullied as your present seems pure, you would not to me be less respectable and dear. I leave you, with my heart agitated with pride, joy, and bitterness. You love me! How could I support the idea of losing you, if the terrible will which disposes of both of us, so ordained it? I know not. At this moment, in spite of my terror, I cannot be unhappy. I am too much intoxicated with your love and mine to suffer. Were I to seek in vain for you during my whole life, I would not complain because I have seen you and received a kiss from you, condemning me to eternal sorrow. Neither can I lose the hope of meeting you some day; even though it were for a single moment, and though I had no other evidence of your love than the kiss so purely given and returned, I would feel myself a thousand times happier than I ever was before I knew you.
"And now, dear girl, poor, troubled being, recall, without shame and without terror, the brief and heavenly moments in which you felt my love transfused into your heart. You have said love comes to us from God, and we cannot ourselves stifle or enkindle it. Were I unworthy of you the sudden inspiration which forced you to return my embrace would not be less heavenly. The Providence that protects you, would not consent that the treasure of my love should fall on a vain and false heart. Were I ungrateful, as far as you are concerned, it would only be a noble mind led astray, a precious inspiration lost. I adore you; and whatever you may be in other respects, you had nothing to do with the illusion, when you fancied that I loved you. You were not profaned by the beating of my heart—by the support of my arm—by the touch of my lips. Our mutual confidence, and blind faith, have at once exalted us to that sublimeabandonjustified by long attachment. Why regret you? I am well aware there is something terrible in that fatality which impels us to each other. It is the will of God. Do you see it? We cannot be mistaken. You bear away with you my terrible secret. Keep it wholly to yourself—confide it to no one.Beppo, perhaps, will not comprehend it. Whoever that friend may be, I alone venerate your folly and respect your weakness, for this folly and weakness are mine. Adieu! This may be an eternal adieu, yet, as the world says, I am free, and so too are you. I love you alone, and know you do not love another. Our fate is not our own. I am bound by eternal vows, and so too will you be ere long. At least you will be in the power of the Invisibles, and from them there is no appeal. Adieu, then. . . . My bosom is torn, but God will give me power to accomplish my sacrifice, and even a more rigorous one yet, if such there be. Great God! have pity on me."
This unsigned letter was in a painful and counterfeited hand.
"Karl," said Consuelo, pale and trembling; "did the Chevalier give you this?"
"Yes, signora."
"And wrote it himself?"
"Yes, signora; and not without pain. His right hand was wounded."
"Wounded, Karl? Severely?"
"Perhaps. The cut was deep, though he did not seem to mind it."
"Where was it?"
"Last night, when we were changing the horses, just before we came to the frontier, the leading-horse wished to go before the postilion had mounted the saddle-beast. You were in the carriage alone; the postilion and I were four or five paces off. The Chevalier held the horse with immense power, and with a lion's courage, for he was very restive."
"Ah! yes, I felt violent shocks, but you told me it was nothing."
"I did not know the Chevalier was hurt. He had injured his hand with a buckle of the harness."
"And for me? But, tell me, Karl, has the Chevalier gone?"
"Not yet. His horse is now being saddled, and I am come to pack his portmanteau. He says that you have nothing to fear, for the person who is to replace him has arrived. I hope we will see him soon, for I would be sorry for any accident to happen. He, however, would promise nothing, and to all my questions answered 'Perhaps.'"
"Where is the Chevalier, Karl?"
"I do not know, signora, his room is there. Do you wish me to say from you——"
"No; I will write. No; tell him I would see him an instant, to thank him and press his hand. Be quick; I fear he has gone already."
Karl left, and Consuelo soon regretted having sent the message. She said to herself that the stranger had never come near her, except in a case of absolute necessity, and had doubtless an affiliation with the strange and whimsical Invisibles. She resolved to write to him; but she had scarcely written and effaced a few words, when a slight noise made her look up. She saw a panel of the woodwork slide, and discovered there was thus a communication between the room in which she had written and the Chevalier's chamber. The panel was only opened wide enough for a gloved hand to be passed, and which seemed to beckon to Consuelo. She rushed forward, saying, "The other hand—the wounded hand." The stranger then withdrew behind the panel so that she could not see him. He then passed out his right hand, of which Consuelo took possession, and untying the ligature, saw that the cut was severe and deep. She pressed her lips on the linen and taking from her bosom the filagré cross, put it in the blood-stained hand. "Here," said she, "is the most precious thing I possess on earth. It is all I have, and never has been separated from me. I never loved any one before well enough to confide to them this treasure. Keep it till we meet——"
The stranger drew the hand of Consuelo behind the wood-work which concealed him, and covered it with kisses. Then, when he heard Karl's steps coming to deliver his message, he pushed it back, and shut the paneling. Consuelo heard the sound of a bolt: she listened in vain, expecting to catch the sound of the stranger's voice. He either spoke in a low tone or had gone.
A few minutes afterwards, Karl returned to Consuelo. "He has gone," said he, sadly, "without saying farewell, but filling my pockets with I know not how many ducats, for the unexpected expenses of our voyage, our regular ones being provided for, as he said—at the expense of the powers above or below, it matters not. There is a little man in black there, who never opens his mouth, except to give orders in a clear dry tone, and who does not please me at all. He replaces the Chevalier, and I will have the honor of his company on the box, a circumstance which does not promise me a very merry conversation. Poor chevalier! may he be restored to us."
"But are we obliged to go with the little man in black?"
"We could not be more under compulsion, signora. The Chevalier made me swear I would obey the stranger as himself. Well, signora, here is your dinner. You must not slight it, for it looks well. We will start at night, then: henceforth, we may stop only where we please—whether at the behest of the powers above or below, I know not."
Consuelo, downcast and terrified, paid no attention to Karl's gossip. She was uneasy about nothing relating to her voyage or her new guide. All became indifferent from the moment the dear stranger left. A prey to profound sadness, she sought mechanically to please Karl, by tasting some of his dishes. Being, however, more anxious to weep than to eat, she asked for a cup of coffee to give her some physical strength and courage. The coffee was brought her. "See, signora, the little man would prepare it himself, to be sure that it was excellent, he looks like an old valet-de-chambre or steward, and, after all, is not so black as he seems. I think he is not such a bad man, though he does not like to talk. He gave me some brandy, at least a hundred years old, the best I ever tasted. If you try a little, you will find it much better than this coffee."
"Drink, Karl, anything you please, and do not disturb me," said Consuelo, swallowing the coffee, the quality of which she scarcely observed.
Scarcely had she left the table when she felt her head become extremely heavy. When Karl came to say the carriage was ready, he found her asleep in the chair. "Give me your arm," she said, "I cannot sustain myself. I think I have a fever."
She was so crushed, that she saw only confusedly the carriage, her new guide, and the keeper of the house, whom Karl could induce to accept of nothing. As soon as she wasen route, she fell asleep. The carriage had been filled up with cushions, like a bed, and thenceforward Consuelo was aware of nothing. She did not know the length of her journey or even the hour of the day or night, whether she travelled uninterruptedly or not. Once or twice she saw Karl at the door, and could comprehend neither his questions nor his terror. It seemed to her that the little man felt her pulse, and made her swallow a refreshing drink, saying, "This is nothing; madame is doing very well." She was indisposed and overcome, and could not keep her heavy eyelids open, nor was her mind sufficiently active to enable her to observe what passed around her. The more she slept, the more she seemed to wish to. She did not even seek to ask if she was sick or not, and she could only say to Karl again what she had finished with before. "Let me alone, good Karl."
Finally, she felt both body and mind a little more free, and looking around, saw that she slept in an excellent bed, between four vast curtains of white satin, with gold fringes. The little man, masked as the Chevalier had been, made her inhale the perfume of aflacon,which seemed to dissipate the clouds over her brain, and replaced the mystery which had enwrapped her with noonday clearness.
"Are you a physician, sir?" said she, with an effort.
"Yes, countess, I have that honor," said he, with a voice which did not seem entirely unknown to her.
"Have I been sick?"
"Somewhat indisposed: you are now much better."
"I feel so, and thank you for your care."
"I am glad, and will not appear again before your ladyship, unless you require my services."
"Am I, then, at the conclusion of my journey?"
"Yes, madame."
"Am I free, or am I a prisoner?"
"You are free, madame, in the area reserved for your habitation."
"I understand. I am in a large and comfortable prison," said Consuelo, looking around her broad bright room, hung with white lustre, with gold rays, supported by magnificently carved and sculptured wood-work. "Can I see Karl?"
"I do not know, madame, for this house is not mine. I go: you need my services no longer. I am forbidden to indulge in the luxury of conversing with you."
He left, and Consuelo, yet feeble and listless, attempted to get up. The only dress she found was a long white woollen robe, of a wonderfully soft texture, not unlike the tunic of a Roman lady. She took it up, and observed fall from it the following note, in letters of gold: "This is the neophyte's spotless robe. If your mind be sullied, this robe of noble innocence will be the devouring tunic of Dejanera."
Consuelo, accustomed to a quiet conscience, (perhaps too quiet,) smiled, and put on the robe with innocent pleasure. She picked up the letter to read it again, and found it puerilely emphatic. She then went to a rich toilette—a table of white marble sustaining a mirror, in a golden frame, of excellent taste. Her attention was attracted by an inscription on the upper ornament of the mirror. It was: "If your soul be as pure as yon crystal, you will see yourself in it always—young and beautiful. But if vice has withered your heart, be fearful of reading in me the stern reflection of moral deformity."
"I have never been either beautiful or vicious," thought Consuelo. "Therefore the mirror in either case must be false."
She looked in it without fear, and did not think herself ugly. The flowing white robe, and her long, floating dark hair, made her look like a priestess of antiquity. Her pallor was extreme, and her eyes were less pure and brilliant than usual. "Can I be growing ugly?" said she, "or does the mirror censure me?"
She opened a drawer of the toilette, and found, amid various articles of luxury, many of them accompanied with devices and sentences, which were at once simple and pedantic. There was a pot of rouge with the following words on the cover: "Fashion and falsehood. Paint does not restore the freshness of innocence to the cheek, and does not efface the ravages of disorder." There were exquisite perfumes with this device: "A soul without faith and an indiscreet lip are like open flacons, the precious contents of which are exhaled and corrupted." There were also white ribands with these words woven in the silk: "To a pure brow, the sacred fillets; to a head charged with infamy, the servile punishment of the cord."
Consuelo did up her hair, tying it complacently in the ancient manner, with the fillets. Then she examined with curiosity the strange abode to which her romantic fate had brought her. She passed through the various rooms of the suite intended for her,—a library, a music-room, filled with admirable instruments, and many and precious musical compositions. She had a delicious boudoir, and a gallery filled with superb and charming pictures and statues. In magnificence her rooms were worthy of a queen, in taste of an artist, and in chastity of a nun. Consuelo, surprised at this sumptuous and delicate hospitality, reserved the detailed examination of the symbols expressed by the books and works of art, until she should be more composed. A desire to know in what part of the world her miraculous home was, made her desert the interior for the exterior. She approached a window, but before she lifted up the silken curtain before it, read: "If the thought of evil be in your heart, you are unworthy of contemplating the divine spectacle of nature; if your heart be the home of virtue, look up and bless God, who opens to you the door of a terrestrial paradise." She opened the window, anxious to see if the landscape corresponded with the proud promises of the inscription. It was an earthly paradise, and Consuelo fancied that she dreamed. The garden, planted in the English manner—a rare thing at that time—but with all the minutiæ of German taste, offered pleasant vistas, magnificent shades, fresh lawns, and the expanses of natural scenery; at the same time that exquisite neatness, sweet and fresh flowers, white sand, and crystal waters, betokened that it was carefully attended to. Above the fine trees, the lofty barriers of a vale covered, or rather draped, with flowers, and divided by clear and limpid brooks, arose a sublime horizon of blue mountains, with broken sides and towering brows. In the whole area of her view, Consuelo saw nothing to tell her in what part of Germany was this imposing spectacle. She did not know where she was. The season, however, seemed advanced, and the herbage older than in Prussia, which satisfied her that she had made some progress to the south.
"Dear canon, where are you?" thought Consuelo, as she looked at the thickets of white lilac and hedges of roses, and the ground, strewn with narcissi, hyacinths, and violets. "Oh! Frederick of Prussia, I thank you for having taught me, by long privations and cruelennui, to enjoy, as I should do, the pleasures of such a refuge. And you, all-powerful Invisibles, keep me ever in this captivity. I consent to it with all my heart, especially if the Chevalier—"
Consuelo did not utter her wish. She had not thought of the stranger since she had shaken off her lethargy. This burning wish awoke in her, and made her reflect on the menacing sentences inscribed on all the walls and furniture of the magic palace, and even on the apparel in which she was so strangely decked.
More than anything else, Consuelo was anxious for, and in need of, liberty, after having passed so many days in slavery. She was then delighted at being able to wander amid a vast space, which the efforts of art and the effect of long avenues made appear yet vaster. After walking about two hours, she felt herself becoming sad by the solitude and silence which reigned in these beautiful spots. She had already gone several times around it, without seeing even a human foot-print on the fine and well-raked sand. Lofty walls, masked by immense vegetation, prevented her from passing into unknown paths. She already had become acquainted with those she had passed. In some places the wall was interrupted by large fosses, filled with water, which allowed the eyes to lose themselves in extensive lawns, which were bounded by wooded mountains, or by the entrance into mysterious and charming alleys, ending in thick glades. From her window, Consuelo saw all nature open to her, but when she came down-stairs, she found herself shut in on every side, and all the inside luxury could not extinguish the sensations of again feeling herself a prisoner. She looked around for the enchanted palace in which she had awaked. The house was a small one, in the Italian style, luxuriantly furnished and elegantly decorated. Its site was a pointed rock, picturesque as possible, but which was a natural enclosure to all the garden, and was as impenetrable an obstacle to a prospect as the high walks and heavy glacis of Spandau.
"My fortress," said Consuelo, "is beautiful, but it is evident that I am not on that account less the prisoner."
She was about to rest herself on the terrace of the house, which was adorned with flowers, and surmounted by a fountain. It was a delicious place, and as it commanded only a view of the interior of the garden, a few eminences in the park, and high mountains, the cliffs of which towered above the trees, the prospect was beautiful and enlivening. Consuelo, instinctively terrified at the care taken to establish her, perhaps for a long time, in her new prison, would have given all the catalpas and flowers, all the garden beds, for some quiet country nook, with a modest cot, rough roads, and a district amid which she was free to wander, and which she could explore at will. Between her residence and the lofty mountains in the distance, there were no intermediate plains to explore. Nothing met her eye but the indistinct dentillated horizon, already lost in the mist of the setting sun. The nightingales sang admirably, but not a human voice announced the presence of a single habitant. Consuelo became aware that her house, at the verge of a large park, or perhaps unexplored forest, was but a dependence of some vast manor. What she now saw of the park inspired her with no wish to extend her acquaintance with it. She saw nothing but flocks of sheep and goats feeding on the flanks of the hills, with as much security as if the approach of a mortal had been unknown to them. At last the evening breeze agitated the poplar-wood which enclosed one of the sides of the garden, and Consuelo saw, by the last light of day, the white towers and sharp roofs of a large castle, half-hidden behind a hill, at perhaps the distance of a quarter of a league. Notwithstanding her wish to think no more of the chevalier, Consuelo persuaded herself that he must be there, and her eyes were anxiously fixed on the imaginary castle perhaps, which it seemed she was prohibited to approach, and which the veil of twilight gradually hid.
When night had come, Consuelo saw the reflection of lights from the lower story of her house pass beneath the neighboring shrubbery, and she hastily descended, with the expectation of seeing some human, face around her dwelling. She had not this pleasure. The servant she found busy in lighting the lamps and fixing the table, was like the doctor, clothed in the uniform of the Invisibles. He was an old servant, in a coarse white wig, resembling wool, and clad in a full suit of tomato-colored material.
"I humbly beg your pardon, madame," said he, with a broken voice, "for appearing before you thus; but such are my orders and the necessity of them are not matter of thought for me. I am subject to your commands, madame, and my masters'. I am steward of this pavilion, director of the garden, andmaitre d'hôtel.They told me that madame, having travelled a great deal, was used to wait on herself, and would not require the services of a female. It would be difficult, madame, to procure one, as I have none, and all those at the castle are forbidden to come hither. A servant woman will arrive shortly to assist me, and a gardener's lad, from time to time, will water the flowers and keep the walks in order. About this I have a very humble observation to make. This is, that any other servant than myself, with whom madame is suspected of having spoken, or have made any sign, will at once be dismissed—a great misfortune to them, for the service is good, and obedience is well rewarded. Madame, I am sure, is too generous and too just to tempt these poor people."
"Rest assured, Matteus," said Consuelo, "I will never be rich enough to reward them, and I am not the person to lead any one to neglect their duty."
"Besides," said Matteus, as if he were talking to himself, "I will never lose sight of them."
"Precaution in that respect is useless. I have too great an obligation to repay to the persons who brought me hither, and to those who have received me to attempt to do anything to deceive them."
"Ah! is madame here of her own accord?" asked Matteus, whose curiosity seemed deprived of nothing but the power of expression.