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 melancholy _cortège._
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 the _prima donna_, Von
Poelnitz, who was _ex-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 the _balayeuse_ in 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 terrible _rôle_ you 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.
The arrest of Porporina had been much talked of, and the audience,
composed of persons devoted by conviction or position to the royal will,
put their hands in their pockets as if to restrain the wish and habit of
applauding the singer. Every one looked at the king, who glanced
curiously over the crowd, and seemed to command the most absolute
silence. Suddenly a crown of flowers, thrown no one knew whence, fell at
the feet of Consuelo, and many voices said, simultaneously and loud
enough to be heard in every part of the house, "_It is the king--the
royal pardon!_" This assertion passed rapidly as lightning from mouth to
mouth, and fancying they paid Frederick a compliment, such a torrent of
applause broke forth as Berlin had never before resounded with. For some
minutes Porporina, amazed and confounded, would not commence her part.
The king, amazed, looked at the spectators with a terrible expression,
which was taken as a signal of consent and approbation. Buddenbrock,
himself, who was not far off, asking young Benda what it all meant, was
told the crown came from the king, and at once began to applaud with the
most comical bad grace. Porporina thought she was dreaming, and the king
scratched his head to know if he was awake.
Whatever might have been the cause and result of this triumph, Consuelo
felt its salutary effect. She surpassed herself, and was applauded with
the same transport, through all the first act. During the interval,
however, the mistake became gradually corrected, and there was but one
part of the audience, the most obscure and least likely to be influenced
by courtiers, which refrained from giving tokens of approbation.
Finally, between the second and third acts, the corridor-orators
informed every one, that the king was very much dissatisfied with the
stupid applause of the public, that a cabal had been created by
Porporina's unheard-of audacity, and that any one who was observed to
participate in it, would certainly regret it. During the third act, in
spite of the wonders performed by the prima donna, the silence was so
great that a fly's wings might have been heard to move at the conclusion
of every song, while the other actors received all the benefit of the
reaction.
Porporina was soon undeceived in relation to her triumph. "My poor
friend," said Conciolini, when behind the scenes he presented her the
chaplet, "how I pity you for having such dangerous friends! They will
ruin you."
Between the acts, Porporino came to her dressing-room, and said, in a
low tone, "I bade you distrust M. de Saint Germain, but it was too late.
Every party has its traitors. Do not, however, be less faithful to
friendship and obedient to the voice of conscience. You are protected by
a more powerful arm than the one which oppresses you."
"What mean you?" said Porporina, "are you of those----"
"I say, God will protect you," said Porporino, who seemed afraid that he
would be overheard, and he pointed to the partition which divided the
dressing-rooms of the actors. The partitions were ten feet high, but
left, between the top and the ceiling, a space sufficiently wide to
suffer sound to pass freely from one to the other. "I foresaw," said he,
giving her a purse filled with money, "that you would need this, and
therefore have brought it."
"I thank you," said Porporina. "If the keeper, who sells me food at a
dear price, come to ask payment, as I have here enough to satisfy him
for a long time, do not give it him. He is an usurer."
"Very well," said the good and kind Porporino, "I will bid you good-bye,
for I would but aggravate your position, if I seemed to have any secret
with you."
He glided away, and Consuelo was visited by Madame Coccei (La
Barberini,) who boldly showed much interest and affection. The Marquise
d'Argens, (La Cochois,) joined them, and exhibited a much more eager
manner, playing the queen who protects misfortune. Consuelo was not very
much pleased at _her_ bearing, and asked her not to compromise her
husband's favor by remaining long with her.
* * * * * * * *
The king said to Von Poelnitz, "Well, have you questioned her? Could you
make her talk?"
"No more than if she were dumb."
"Did you say I would pardon her, if she would tell me what she knew of
_La Balayeuse_, and what St. Germain said?"
"She cares no more about it, than about what happened forty years ago."
"Did you frighten her, by talking of a long captivity?"
"Not yet; your majesty bade me act mildly----"
"Frighten her as you go back."
"I will try. It will be in vain, however."
"She is, then, a saint, a martyr."
"She is a fanatic, possessed by a demon--a devil in petticoats."
"Then, woe to her. I give her up. The Italian opera season ends in a few
days. Arrange matters so that I shall not hear of this girl till next
year."
"A year! Your majesty will not stick to that."
"More firmly than your head sticks to your shoulders."
[Footnote 10: Sophia Wilhelmina. She used the signature of "Sister
Guillemette," in her correspondence with Voltaire.]