Von Poelnitz hated Porporina sufficiently to take this opportunity to
avenge himself. He, however, did not, his conduct being cowardly in the
extreme; he had not sufficient strength of mind to injure any but those
who yielded to him. As soon as he was alone, he became timid, and one
might say, experienced an involuntary respect for those whom he could
not deceive. He had been even known to detach himself from those who
flattered his vices, and to follow, like a whipped hound, those who
trampled on him. Was this a feeling of weakness, or the memory of a less
degraded youth? It would be pleasant to think, that in the most degraded
souls, something appeals to our better instincts, which yet remain,
though oppressed and existing in suffering and remorse alone. Von
Poelnitz had long attached himself to Prince Henry, and feigning to
participate in his sorrows, had induced him to complain of the king's
bad treatment: these conversations he repeated to Frederick, filling
them with venom, as a means of increasing the anger of the latter.
Poelnitz did this dirty work for the very pleasure of mischief; for, in
fact he did not hate the prince, being incapable of the passion. He
hated no one but the king, who dishonored him every day, without making
him rich. Poelnitz loved trickery for its own sake. To deceive, was a
flattering triumph in his eyes. He felt, besides, a real pleasure in
speaking and causing others to speak ill of the king, and when he
repeated all these slanders to the king, he had an interval of pleasure
at being able to play his master the same trick, by concealing the
pleasure he took in laughing at him, betraying and revealing his vicious
and ridiculous points to his enemies. Both parties, therefore, he
considered his dupes, and this life of intrigue in which he fomented
hatred, without knowing precisely why, had a secret attraction.
The consequence, however, was, that Henry discovered, that as often as
he suffered his ill-humor to appear before the complaisant baron, in the
course of a few hours he found the king more offended and outrageous
than ever. If he complained before Von Poelnitz of having been
twenty-four hours in arrest, on the next day he had twice the
confinement awarded him. This prince, as frank as brave, as confiding as
Frederick was suspicious, finally arrived at a correct appreciation of
the character of the miserable baron. Instead of managing him prudently,
he had overpowered him with indignation. Since that time, Poelnitz
humbled himself to the ground and never had offended him. He seemed,
even, in the depth of his heart, to love him as much as he was capable
of loving any one. He warmed with admiration when he spoke of him, and
these testimonials of respect appeared so strange that all were
astonished at such an incomprehensible whim in such a man.
The fact is, Von Poelnitz, finding the prince more generous and a
thousand times more tolerant than Frederick, would have preferred him as
a master; having a vague presentiment or rather a guess, as the king
had, that a mysterious conspiracy was spun around the prince, the
threads of which he wished to hold, so that he might know whether
success was so certain that he might join it. It was then for his own
interests that he sought to ingratiate himself with Consuelo, and
ascertain its secrets. Had she revealed the little she knew, he would
not have disclosed it to the king, unless Frederick had given him a
great deal of money. Frederick was too economical, however, to purchase
the services of great scoundrels.
Poelnitz had ascertained something of this mystery from the Count de
Saint Germain. He had spoken so positively, so boldly of the king, that
this skillful adventurer had not sufficiently distrusted him. Let us
say, _en passant_, that in this adventurer's character there was
something of enthusiasm and folly: that though he was a charlatan and
even Jesuitical in many respects, there was a foundation for the entire
man, a fanatical conviction which presented singular contrasts, and
induced him to perpetrate many errors.
In conveying Consuelo back to the fortress, having somewhat familiarized
himself with the contempt she had exhibited, he conducted himself with
great _naïveté_ towards her. He confessed to her, voluntarily, that he
was ignorant of everything, that all he had said about the plans of the
prince, in relation to foreign powers, was but a gratuitous commentary
on the whimsical conduct and secret association of the prince and his
sister with suspicious characters.
"This commentary does no honor to your lordship's sincerity," said
Consuelo, "and, perhaps, should not be boasted of."
"The commentary is not my own," said Poelnitz, quietly. "It is conceived
by a royal master, with a diseased and unhealthy brain, if there ever
was one, whenever any suspicion takes possession of him. To consider
suppositions as certainties, is a mode of conduct so firmly established
by the custom of courts and diplomatists, that it is pretence in you to
scandalise it. I, too, learned it from kings. They are the persons who
have educated me, and my vices come from the father and the son, the two
Prussian monarchs I have the honor to have served. To state falsehood,
to discover the truth--Frederick never acts otherwise, and is considered
a great man. See what it is to be popular. Yet I am treated as a
criminal because I have his errors; what a prejudice!"
Von Poelnitz insinuatingly endeavored, as well as he could, to ascertain
from Consuelo what had passed between herself, the abbess, Von Trenek,
the adventurers Cagliostro, Trismegistus, Saint Germain, and a number of
very important persons, who, it was said, were involved in the affair.
He told her, naïvely enough, that if the matter had any consistency, he
would not hesitate to join in it. Consuelo at last saw that he spoke
sincerely. As she knew nothing, however, there was no merit in
persisting in her denial.
When the fortress gates closed on Consuelo and her pretended secret, he
reflected on the course he ought to adopt in relation to her, and, in
conclusion, hoping if she returned to Berlin that she would suffer her
secret to be discovered, determined to vindicate her. The first sentence
he said to the king on the next day Frederick interrupted.
"What has she revealed?" said he.
"Nothing, sire."
"Then do not disturb me. I forbade you to speak of her. Never utter her
name again before me."
This was said in such a tone that reply was impossible. Frederick
certainly suffered when he thought of Porporina, for there was in his
heart and conscience a tender point which quivered, as when a pin is
driven into the flesh. To shake off this painful sensation he determined
to forget the matter, and had no difficulty in doing so. Eight days had
not elapsed, when, thanks to his strong character and the servile
conduct of those around him, he forgot that Consuelo had ever existed.
She was at Spandau. The theatrical season was over, and her piano had
been taken from her. The king had given orders to that effect on the
evening when, thinking to gratify him, the audience had applauded her
even in his presence. Prince Henry was placed under an indefinite
arrest. The Abbess of Quedlimburg was very sick. The king was cruel
enough to make her think Trenck had been retaken, and was again in
prison. Trismegistus and Saint Germain had really disappeared, and _la
balayeuse_ no longer haunted the palace. What her apparition presaged
really seemed confirmed. The youngest of the prince's brothers died of
premature disease.
Added to these domestic troubles was the final dispute between Voltaire
and the king. Almost all biographers have declared that Voltaire had the
best of it. When we look closely at the documents, we find recorded
circumstances which do honor to neither, though the most contemptible
part was played by Frederick. Colder, more implacable, more selfish than
Voltaire, Frederick was capable neither of envy nor hatred, and these
bitter passions stripped Voltaire of a dignity the king knew how to
assume. Among the bitter disputes which added, drop by drop, to the
explosion, was one in which Consuelo was not named, but which prolonged
the sentence of wilful oblivion pronounced on her. D'Argens was reading
one evening the Parisian newspapers, in the presence of Voltaire. They
mentioned the affair of M'lle Clairon, who was interrupted in her part
by a spectator, who shouted out "_louder._" Called on to make an apology
to the public, she cried out, in royal phraseology, "_et vous plus
bas._"[11] The result was, she was sent to the _Bastille_ for having
acted with as much pride as firmness. The newspapers said that this
circumstance would not deprive the public of the pleasure of seeing
M'lle Clairon, because during her incarceration she would be brought
under an escort from the Bastille, to play the parts of _Phédre_ or
_Chimene_, after which she would be returned to prison until her
sentence had expired, which it was hoped and presumed would not be long.
Voltaire was very intimate with Clairon, because she had greatly
contributed to the success of his dramatic works. He was indignant at
the circumstance, and forgetting that a perfectly analogous circumstance
was passing under his eyes, said--"This does little honor to France. The
fool! to interrupt an actress in such a brutal manner--and such an
actress as M'lle Clairon--stupid public! She make an apology--a lady--a
charming woman! Brutes! Barbarians! The Bastile? In God's name, marquis,
are you not amazed? A woman in the Bastile at this age--for a _bon mot_,
full of mind, _apropos_, and taste! France, too!"
"Certainly," said the king, "La Clairon was playing _Electra_ and
_Semiramis_; and the public, unwilling to lose a single word, should
find favor with M. de Voltaire."
At another time, this remark of the king would have been flattering to
Voltaire; but it was now uttered with such irony, that the philosopher
was surprised, and it reminded him of the blunder he had committed. He
had wit enough to repair it, but would not. The king's ill-temper
excited him, and he replied: "No, sire: Madame Clairon would have
disgraced my tragedy had she obeyed; and I cannot think the world has a
police-system brutal enough to bury beauty, genius, and weakness in a
dungeon."
This reply, added to others, and especially the brutal ridicule, cynical
laughter, &c., reported to the king by the officious Poelnitz,
super-induced the rupture with which all are acquainted, and supplied
Voltaire with the means of making the most piquant complaints, most
comical imprecations, and most bitter reproaches. Consuelo was more than
ever forgotten, while Clairon left the Bastile in triumph. Deprived of
her piano, the poor girl appealed to her courage, and continued to sing
and compose at night. She succeeded, and did not fail to discover that
her beautiful voice was improved by this most difficult practice. The
fear of lunacy made her very circumspect. She was enabled to attend to
herself alone, and a constant exercise of memory and mind was required.
Her manner became more serious, and nearer perfection. Her compositions
became more simple, and, at Spandau, she was the author of airs of
wonderful beauty and grand sadness. Before long, however, she became
aware of the injury which the loss of her piano did to her health and
calmness. Knowing the necessity of ceaseless occupation, and unwilling
to repose after exciting and stormy production and execution, by more
tranquil study and research, she became aware that fever was gradually
kindling in her veins, and she was plunged in grief. Her active
character, which was happy and full of affectionate expansion, was not
formed for isolation and the absence of sympathy. She would, in a few
weeks have been sacrificed to this cruel _régime_, had not Providence
sent her a friend whom she certainly did not expect to meet.
[Footnote 11: Royalty in Europe always uses the plural. The meaning of
the phrase is, "And you SPEAK not so loudly!"]