CHAPTER XIX

To any one fond of reading the history of prisoners, the simplicity of

this concealment, which escaped the examination of the keepers anxious

to discover it, will not seem at all wonderful. The secret of Consuelo

was never discovered; and when she looked for her treasures, on her

return from walking, she found them untouched. Her first care was to put

her bed before her window, as soon as it was night, to light her lamp

and commence writing. We will suffer her to speak for herself. We are

owners of the manuscript which was for a long time after her death in

the possession of the canon *****. We translate from the Italian:--

Journal of Consuelo, otherwise Poporina, a Prisoner at Spandau,

April, 175--

"April 2.--I have never written anything but music; and though I speak

several tongues with facility, I am ignorant whether I can express

myself in a correct style in any. It never has seemed proper that I

should expound what fills my heart otherwise than in the divine art

which I profess, words and phrases appear so cold to me, compared with

what I could express in song. I can count the letters, or rather notes,

I have hastily written, without knowing how, in the three or four most

decisive instances of my life. This is, then, the first time in the

course of my life that I find it necessary to trace in words what has

happened to me. It is a pleasure for me to attempt it. Illustrious and

venerated Porpora! amiable and dear Haydn! excellent and kind canon

*****! you, my only friends--except, perhaps, you, noble and unfortunate

Trenck--it is of you that I think as I write; it is to you that I

recount my reverses and trials. It seems to me that I speak to you, that

I am with you, and that in my sad solitude I escape annihilation by

initiating you into the secret of my existence. It may be I shall die

here of _ennui_ and want, though as yet neither my health nor spirits

are materially changed. I am ignorant, however, of the evils reserved

for me in the future; and if I die, at least a trace of my agony, a

description of it, will remain in your hands. This will be the heritage

of the prisoner who will succeed me in this cell, and who in the recess

in the wall will find these sheets, as I found myself the paper and

pencil with which I write. How I thank my mother, who could not write,

for having caused me to be taught! It is a great consolation in prison

to be able to write. My sad song could not pierce the walls, nor could

it reach you. Some day this manuscript may; and who knows but I may send

it soon. I have always trusted in Providence.

"April 3.--I will write briefly, and will not indulge in long

reflections. This small supply of paper, fine as silk, will not last

always, and my imprisonment perhaps will not soon end. I will tell you

something every night, before I go to sleep. I must also be economical

of my waxlights. I cannot write by day, lest I should be surprised. I

will not tell you why I have been sent here, for I do not know myself,

and perhaps by guessing at the cause, I might compromise persons who

have nothing to do with me. I will not either complain of the authors of

my misfortune. It seems to me that I would lose the power of sustaining

myself, if I were to complain or become angry at them. I wish here to

speak only of those whom I love, and of him I have loved.

"I sing for two hours every evening, and it seems to me that I improve.

What will be the use of this? The roofs of my dungeon reply, they do not

understand--but God does; and when I have composed some canticle which I

sing in the fervor of my heart, I experience a celestial calm, and sink

to sleep almost happily. I fancy that heaven replies to me, and that a

mysterious voice sings while I sleep a strain far more beautiful than

mine, which in the morning I attempt to remember and repeat. Now that I

have pencils and a small supply of ruled paper, I will write out my

compositions. Some day, my friends, it may be that you will attempt

them, and that I shall not have altogether vanished from your memory.

"April 4.--This morning the 'red-throat' came into my room, and remained

there more than a quarter of an hour. For a fortnight I have invited him

to do me this honor, and at last he decided on it. He dwells in an old

ivy which clings to the wall near my window, and which my keepers spare,

because it gives a green shelter to their door, which is a few feet

below. The little bird for some time looked at me in a curious and

suspicious manner. Attracted by the crumbs of bread which I rolled up to

resemble little worms, hoping to entice him by what appeared living

prey, he came lightly, as if he were wafted by the wind, to my bars; but

as soon as he became aware of the deceit, he went away with a

reproachful air, and I heard a chattering which sounded very like a

complaint. And these rude iron bars, so close and black, across which we

made our acquaintance! they are so like a cage that he was afraid of

them. To-day, when I was not thinking of him, he determined to cross

them, and perched himself on the back of a chair. To avoid frightening

him, I did not stir, and he looked around with an air of terror. He

seemed like a traveller who has discovered an unknown land, and who

examines it, that he may impart to his compatriots an idea of its

curiosities. I astonished him most, and as long as I did not move he was

much amazed. With his large round eye, and his turned-up nose, he has an

impudent, saucy look, which is quite amusing. At last, to bring about a

conversation I coughed, and he flew away with great alarm. In his hurry

he could not find the window, and for some time he flew around as if he

were out of his senses; but he soon became calm, when he saw I had no

disposition to pursue him, and alighted on the stove. He seemed

agreeably surprised at its warmth, and returned thither frequently to

warm his feet. He then ventured to touch the bread-worms on the table,

and, after scattering them contemptuously about, being beyond doubt

pressed by hunger, he ate them. Just then, Swartz, the keeper, came in,

and my visitor flew in terror from the window. I hope he will return,

for he scarcely left me during the day, and looked constantly at me, as

if he said he had not a bad opinion of me or of my bread.

"This is a long story about a red-throat. I did not think myself such a

child. Does prison life have a tendency to produce idiocy; or is there a

mystery and affection between all things that breathe under heaven? I

had my piano here for a few days. I could practise, study, compose,

sing. None of these things, however, pleased me so much as the visit of

this little bird!--of this being!--yes, it is a living thing! and

therefore was it that my heart beat when I saw him near me. Yet my

keeper, too, is a living thing, one of my own species; his wife, his son

(whom I have seen several times), the sentinels who walk day and night

on the rampart, are better organised beings, my natural friends and

brothers before God--yet their aspect is rather painful. The keeper

produces the effect of a wicket on me; his wife is like a chain; and his

son, a stone fastened to the wall. In the soldiers, I see nothing but

muskets pointed at me. They seem to have nothing human about them. They

are machines, instruments of torture and death. Were it not for the fear

of impiety, I would hate them. Oh! red-throat, I love you! I do not

merely say so, but feel it. Let any one who can explain this kind of

love.

"April 5.--Another event. This note I received this morning. It was

scarcely legible, and was written on a piece of paper much soiled:--

"'Sister--Since the spirit visits you, I am sure you are a saint. I am

your friend and servant. Dispose as you please of your brother.'

"Who is this friend thus improvised? It is impossible to guess. I found

the note on my window this morning, as I opened it to say good morning

to my bird. Can he have brought it? I am tempted to think the bird wrote

it, so well does he know and seem to love me. He never goes near the

kitchen below, the windows of which give vent to a greasy smell, which

reaches even me, and which is not the least disagreeable condition of my

place of incarceration. I do not wish to change it, however, since my

bird has adopted it. He has too much taste to become intimate with the

vulgar turnkey, his ill-tempered wife, and ugly son.[12] He yields his

confidence especially to me. He breakfasted here with an appetite, and

when I walked on the esplanade, hovered around me. He chattered away, as

if to please me, and attract my attention. Gottlieb was at the door, and

looked at me as I passed, giggling and staring. This creature is always

accompanied by a horrid red cat, which looks at my bird with an

expression yet more horrible than his master's. This makes me shudder. I

hate the animal as much as I do Vrau Swartz, the searcher.

"April 6th.--Another note this morning. It is strange. The same crooked,

angular, blotted writing, and the same sheet of dirty paper. My friend

is not an hidalgo, but he is gentle and enthusiastic. 'Dear

sister--chosen spirit, marked by the finger of God--you distrust me, and

are unwilling to speak to me. Can I aid you in nothing? My life is

yours. Command the services of your brother.'--I look at the sentinel,

who is a brutish soldier, and employs himself in knitting as he walks up

and down, with his gun on his shoulder. He looks at me, and apparently

had rather send a ball than a note to me. Let me look in any direction I

please, I see nothing but stern gray walls beset with nettles,

surrounded by ditches, and they, too, shut in by another fortification,

the use and the very name of which I am ignorant of, but which hides the

water from me. On the summit of this other work I see another sentinel,

or at least his cap and gun, and hear from time to time the savage cry,

'Keep off!' Could I but see the water, the boats, or catch a glimpse of

the landscape! I can hear the sound of the oars, the fisherman's song,

and when the wind blows thence, the rushing of the waters at the place

of meeting of the two rivers. But whence come the mysterious notes, and

this devotion of which I can make nothing? My bird knows, perhaps, but

he will not tell me.

"April 7th.--As I looked carefully about me during my walk on the

rampart, I discovered a narrow opening in the flank of the tower I

inhabit, about ten feet above my window, and almost hidden by the ivy

branches which grow over it. 'So little light,' I said, sadly, to

myself, 'cannot illumine the habitation of aught human.' I wished to

learn for what it was intended, and attempted to induce Gottlieb to go

on the rampart with me, by flattering his passion or rather monomania

for shoemaking. I asked him if he could make me a pair of slippers, and

for the first time he approached me without being made to do so, and he

replied to me without difficulty. He talks as strangely as he looks, and

I begin to think he is not an idiot but a madman.

"'Shoes for thee!' he said, and he is familiar withal. 'It is written

"the latches of whose shoes I am unworthy to unloose."'

"I saw his mother three paces from the door, and ready to join in the

conversation. At that time I had neither leisure nor opportunity to

comprehend his humility and veneration, and I asked if the story above

me was occupied, but scarcely hoping to obtain a distinct answer.

"'It is not,' said Gottlieb, 'but merely contains a stairway to the

platform.'

"'And is the platform isolated? Does it communicate with nothing?'

"'Why ask me? You know.'

"'I neither know, nor care to know, Gottlieb. I ask the question merely

to ascertain if you have as much sense as they say.'

"'Ah! I have sense--much sense,' said the poor lad, in a grave and sad

tone, which contrasted strangely with the comical air of his words.

"'Then you can tell me,' continued I, '(for time is precious,) how this

court is constructed?'

"'Ask your bird,' he said, with a strange smile. 'He knows, for he flies

and goes everywhere; but I know nothing, for I go nowhere.'

"'What! not even to the top of the tower in which you live? Do you not

know what is behind that wall?'

"'Perhaps I have been there, but I paid no attention to it. I look at no

one and nobody.'

"'Yet you see the bird. You know that?'

"'Ah! the bird is a thing of a different kind. All look at angels. That

is no reason why I should look at the walls.'

"'What you say is very profound, Gottlieb. Can you explain it to me?'

"'Ask the red-throat. I tell you he knows everything. He can go

anywhere, but never goes except among his equals. That is why he comes

to see you.'

"'Thank you, Gottlieb. Do you take me for a bird?'

"'The red-throat is not a bird.'

"'What then?'

"'An angel, as you know.'

"'Then so am I.'

"'You have said it.'

"'You are gallant, Gottlieb.'

"'_Gallant!_' said he, looking anxiously at me. 'What is the meaning of

that?'

"'Do you not know?'

"'No.'

"'How know you that the red-throat comes into my room?'

"'I have seen and heard so from him.'

"'Then he has spoken to you?'

"'Sometimes,' said Gottlieb with a sigh, 'but very seldom. Yesterday he

said, "No, I will never go into that hellish kitchen." The angels have

nothing to say to evil spirits."'

"'Are you an evil spirit, Gottlieb?'

"'No, no; not I, but----' Here Gottlieb put his fingers on his thick

lips with a mysterious air.

"'But who?'

"'He did not reply, but he pointed to his cat stealthily, as if he was

afraid of being heard.

"'That is the reason, then, why you call him by that terrible name,

Belzebub?'

"'Sh--! That is his name, and he knows it well enough. He has been

called so ever since the world began. He will not always bear that

name.'

"'Certainly not; he will die.'

"'He will not die--not he--he cannot; and he is sorry for it, for he

does not know when he will be pardoned.'

"Here we were interrupted by the coming of Madame Swartz, who was amazed

at seeing Gottlieb talk so freely with me. She asked me if I was pleased

with him.

"'Very much so, I assure you. Gottlieb is very interesting, and I will

be glad to talk with him.'

"'Ah, signora, you will do us a great service, for the poor lad has no

one to talk with, and to us he never opens his mouth. Are you stupid,

and a fool, my poor child? You talk well enough with the signorina whom

you do not know, while with your parents----'

"Gottlieb suddenly turned on his heel and disappeared in the kitchen,

apparently not having even heard his mother's voice.

"'He always does so,' said Madame Swartz; 'when his father speaks to

him, or when I do, twenty-nine times out of thirty, he never opens his

lips. What did he say to you, signorina? Of what on earth could he

converse so long?'

"'I will confess to you that I did not understand him,' said I. 'To do

so, it is necessary to know to what his ideas relate. Let me talk to him

from time to time freely, and when I am sure, I will tell you what he

thinks of.'

"'But, signorina, his mind is not disturbed.'

"'I think not;' and there I told a falsehood, for which I beg God to

pardon me. My first idea was to spare the poor woman, who, malicious as

she is, is yet a mother, and who, fortunately, is not aware of her

child's madness. This is always very strange. Gottlieb, who exhibited

his folly very naïvely to me, must be silent with his parents. When I

thought of it, I fancied that perhaps I might extract from him some

information in relation to the other prisoners, and discover, perhaps,

from his answers, who was the author of my anonymous notes. I wish,

then, to make him my friend, especially as he seems to sympathise with

the red-throat, who sympathises with me. There is much poetry in the

diseased mind of this poor lad. To him the bird is an angel, and the cat

a being who never can be pardoned. What means all this? In these German

heads, even in the mildest of them, there is a luxury of imagination

which I cannot but admire.'

"The consequence of all this is, that the female Swartz is much

satisfied with my kindness, and that I am on the best possible terms

with her. The chattering of Gottlieb will amuse me. Now that I know him,

he inspires me with no dislike. A madman in this country, where even

people of high talent are not a little awry, cannot be so very bad.

"April 8th.--Third note on my window. 'Dear sister, that platform is

isolated, but the staircase to it connects with another block in which a

lady prisoner is confined. Her name is a mystery, but if you question

the red-throat, you can find out who she is. This is what you wished

poor Gottlieb to tell you. He could not.'

"Who is then the friend who knows, sees, and hears all I do and say? I

cannot tell. Is he invisible? All this seems so strange that it really

amuses me. It seems to me, that, as in my childhood, I live amid a fairy

tale, and that my bird will really speak to me. If I must say of my

charming pet, that he needs speech alone, he certainly needs that, and

thus I will never understand his language. He is now used to me; he

comes to and goes from my room as if he felt himself at home. If I move

or walk, he does not fly farther than my arm's-length and then returns

immediately to me. If he loved bread a great deal, he would be fonder of

me, for I cannot deceive myself as to the nature of his attachment.

Hunger, and perhaps a desire to warm at my stove, are his great

attractions. Could I but catch a fly, (for they are rare,) I am sure I

could get hold of him: he already has learned to look closely at the

food I offer him, and were the temptation stronger, he would cast aside

all ceremony. I now remember having heard Albert say, that to tame the

wildest animals, if they had any mind, nothing more than a few hours'

patience is necessary. He had met a Zingara, who pretended to be a

sorceress, and who never remained a whole day in any forest without the

birds lighting on her. She said she had some charm, and pretended, like

Appolonius of Tyana, the history of whom Albert had related to me, to

receive revelations about strange things from them. Albert assured me

that all her secret was the patience with which she had studied their

instincts, and a certain affinity of character which exists between

individuals of our own and other species. At Venice a great many birds

are domesticated, and I can understand the reason, which is, that that

beautiful city being separated from _terra firma_, is not unlike a

prison. In the education of nightingales they excel. Pigeons are

protected by a special law, and are almost venerated by the population:

they live undisturbed in old buildings, and are so tame, that, in the

street, it is necessary to be careful to avoid treading on them. When I

was a girl, I was very intimate with a young person who dealt in them,

and if the wildest bird was given him for a single hour, he tamed it as

completely as if it had been brought up in a cage. I amuse myself by

trying similar experiments on my red-throat, which grows every minute

more used to me. When I am out, he follows me and calls after me; when I

go to the window, he hurries to me. Would he, could he love me! I feel

that I love him; but he does not avoid nor fly from me; that is all. The

child in the cradle doubtless has no other love for its nurse. What

tenderness! Alas! I think we love tenderly only those who can return our

love. Ingratitude and devotion, indifference and passion, are the

universal symbols of the hymen of all; yet I suffered you, Albert, who

loved me so deeply, to die; I am now reduced to love a red-throat, and

complain that I did not deserve my fate. You think, my friends, perhaps,

that I should not dare to jest on such a subject! No; my mind is perhaps

disturbed by solitude; my heart, deprived of affection, wastes itself

away, and this paper is covered with tears.

"I had promised not to squander this precious paper; yet I am covering

it up with puerilities I find great consolation in, and cannot refrain

from doing so. It has rained all day and I have not seen Gottlieb. I

have not been out; I have been occupied wholly with the red-throat, and

this child's play has had the effect of making me very sad. When the

smart shrewd bird sought to leave me and began to peck at the glass, I

yielded to him. I opened the window from a feeling of respect for that

holy liberty which men are not afraid to take from their fellows. I was

wounded at this momentary abandonment, and felt as if he owed me

something for the great care I had taken of him. I really think I am

becoming mad, and that, ere long, I shall fully understand all

Gottlieb's fancies.

"April 9th.--What have I learned?--or rather, what have I fancied that I

learned? for I know nothing now, although my imagination is busy.

"Now I have discovered the author of the mysterious notes. It is the

last person I would ever have imagined; but that is not what surprises

me; it matters not, I will tell you all.

"At dawn I opened my window, which is formed of a large square of glass,

that I might lose nothing of the small portion of daylight, which is

partially excluded by that abominable grating. The very ivy also

threatens to plunge me into darkness, but I dare not pluck one leaf, for

it lives and is free in its natural existence. To distort, to mutilate

it, would require much courage. It feels the influence of April; it

hurries to grow; it extends and fixes its tendrils on every side; its

roots are sealed to the stone, yet it ascends and looks for air and

light. Human thought does the same thing. Now I understand why once

there were holy plants--sacred birds. The red-throat has come and has

lighted on my shoulder without any hesitation. He then immediately began

to look around, to examine everything, to touch everything. Poor thing!

it finds so little here to amuse itself. It is free, however; it may

inhabit the fields, yet it prefers a prison, the old ivy and my cell.

Does it love me? No! It is warm in my room and likes my crumbs. I am now

distressed at having tamed it so thoroughly. What if it should go into

the kitchen and become the prey of that abominable cat; my care for it

would have brought about its terrible death! to be lacerated and

devoured by that fearful beast. But what is the condition of our feeble

sex, the hearts of whom are pure and defenceless? Are we not tortured

and destroyed by pitiless beings, who, as they slowly kill us, make us

feel their claws and cruel teeth?

"The sun rose clear, and my cell was almost rose color, bright as my

room in the _Corte Minelli_, when the sun of Venice ****. We must not

think, however, of that sun. It will never rise for me. May you, my dear

friends, salute smiling Italy for me, the vast skies _é il firmamento

lucido_--which I never will see again.

"I have asked leave to go out; they have permitted me to do so, though

the hour was earlier than usual. I call this going out; a platform

thirty feet long, bordered by a swamp, and shut in by huge walls. Yet

the place is not without beauty; at least I think so now, that I have

seen it under all its aspects. At night it is beautiful, because it is

sad. I am sure there are many persons innocent as I am, here, who are

much worse treated. There are dungeons whence people never come, which

the light of day never penetrates, and on which the moon, the friend of

the wretched, never shines. Ah! I am wrong to complain. My God! had I

portion of the power of earth, how I would love to make people happy!

"Gottlieb came shuffling rapidly towards me, smiling too, as well as his

stony lips permit him. They did not disturb him, but left him alone with

me. A miracle happened. He began at once to talk like a reasonable

being.

"'I did not write to you, last night,' said he, 'and you found no note

on your window. The reason was, I did not see you yesterday, and you

asked for nothing.'

"'What mean you, Gottlieb? Did you write to me?'

"'Who else could! You did not guess it was I? I will not write to you

now, for since you let me talk to you, it is useless. I did not wish to

trouble, but to serve you.'

"'Kind Gottlieb! Then you pity me? You take an interest in me?'

"'Yes; since I found out that you were a spirit of light.'

"'I am nothing more than you are, Gottlieb. You are mistaken!'

"'I am not mistaken; I have heard you sing!'

"'You like music, then?'

"'I like yours. It is pleasant to God and to my heart!'

"'Your heart is pious, your soul is pure, I see!'

"'I strive to make them so! The angels will aid me, and I will overcome

the powers of darkness which weigh on my poor body, but which have no

influence on my soul!'

"Gradually, Gottlieb began to speak with enthusiasm, never ceasing,

however, to be noble and true to poetical symbolism.

"In fine, what shall I say? This idiot, this madman, reached the tone of

true eloquence, when he spoke of God's mercy, of human misery, of the

future justice of Providence, of evangelical virtues, of the duties of a

true believer, of arts, of music, and poetry. As yet, I have not been

able to understand in what religion he vested his ideas and fervent

exultation, for he seems to be neither catholic nor protestant, and

though he told me he believed in the true religion, he told me nothing

except that, unknown to his parents, he belonged to a peculiar sect: I

am too ignorant to know what. I will study by-and-bye the mystery,

singularly strong and beautiful, singularly sad and afflicted soul; for,

in fact, Gottlieb is mad, as in poetry Zdenko was, and as Albert was in

his lofty virtue. The madness of Gottlieb reappeared after he had spoken

for some time with great animation; his enthusiasm became too strong for

him, and then he began to talk in a manner that distressed me, about the

bird, the demon-cat, and his mother, who, he said, had allied herself to

the evil spirit in him. Finally, he said his father had been changed

into stone by a glance of the devil-cat, Belzebub. I was enabled to calm

him by leading his attention away from his moody fancies, and asked him

about the other prisoners. I had now no personal interest in these

details, because the notes, instead of being thrown from the top of the

tower into my window, were pushed up by Gottlieb, from below, by means

of I know not what simple apparatus. Gottlieb obeyed my inquiries with

singular docility, had already ascertained what I wished to know. He

told me that the prisoner in the building back of me, was young and

beautiful, and that he had seen her. I paid no attention to what he

said, until he mentioned her name, which really made me shiver. The

prisoner's name was Amelia.

"Amelia! What an ocean of anxiety; what a world of memories did that

name arouse in me! I have known two Amelias, each of whom hurled my fate

into an abyss of ruin, by their confessions. Was the Princess, or the

young Baroness of Rudolstadt, the prisoner? Certainly neither the one or

the other. Gottlieb, who seems to have no curiosity, and who never takes

a step, nor asks a question, unless urged to do so, could tell me

nothing more. He saw the prisoner as he sees everything, through a

cloud. She must be young and beautiful, for his mother says so; but

Gottlieb told me that he did not know. He only knew from having seen her

at a window, that she is not a _good spirit and angel._ Her family name

is concealed. She is rich and pays the jailer much money; but she is,

like myself, in solitary confinement; she is often sick; she never goes

out. I could discover nothing more. Gottlieb has only to listen to his

parents' chatter to find out all, for they pay no attention to him. He

has promised to listen and find out how long Amelia has been here. Her

other name the Swartzes seem to be ignorant of. Were the abbess here,

would they not know it? Would the king imprison his sister? Princesses

are here treated even worse than others. The young baroness! Why should

she be here? Why has Frederick deprived her of liberty? Well! a perfect

prison curiosity has beset me, and my anxiety, wakened by her name,

results from an idle and diseased imagination. It matters not; I will

have a mountain on my heart until I discover who is my fellow-prisoner,

bearing that name, which has ever been so important to me."

"May 1.--For many days I have been unable to write. In the interval much

has happened that I am anxious to record.

"In the first place, I have been sick. From time to time since I have

been here, I have felt the symptoms of a brain fever, similar to that

severe attack I had at the Giants' Castle, after going into the cavern

in search of Albert. I had painfully disturbed nights, interrupted with

dreams, during which I cannot say whether I sleep or am awake. At those

times I seem to hear the terrible violin playing old Bohemian airs,

chants, and war-songs. This does me much injury; yet when this fancy

begins to take possession of me, I cannot but listen and hearken to the

faint sounds which the breeze bears to me from the distance. Sometimes I

fancy that the violin is played by a person who glides over the surface

of the water, that sleeps around the castle; then, that it comes from

the walls above, or rises from some dungeon. My heart and mind are

crushed, yet when night comes, instead of looking for amusement with my

pen and pencil, I throw myself on my bed, and seek again to resume that

kind of half sleep which brings me my musical dream, or rather reverie,

for there is something real about it. A real violin certainly is played

by some prisoner; but what and how does it play? It is too far distant

for me to hear aught but broken sounds. My diseased imagination invents

the rest, I am sure. Now I can no longer doubt that Albert is dead, and

I must look on it as a misfortune that has befallen me. It is apparently

a part of our nature to hope against hope, and not to submit to the

rigor of fate.

"Three nights ago I was sound asleep, and was awakened by a noise in my

room. I opened my eyes, but the night was so dark that I could

distinguish nothing. I heard distinctly some one walking with stealthy

step by my bed. I thought Vrau Swartz had come to inquire into my

condition, and I spoke to her. I had no answer, however, but a deep

sigh. The person went out on tiptoe, and I distinctly heard the door

closed and bolted. I was overpowered and went to sleep, without paying

any great attention to the circumstance. The next day I had so confused

a recollection of it, that I was not sure whether I had dreamed or not.

Last night I had a more violent fever than hitherto; yet I prefer that

to my uneasy slumbers and disjointed dreams. I slept soundly, and

dreamed, but did not hear the sad violin. As often as I awoke, I became

aware of the difference between sleeping and waking. In these intervals

the breathing of a person not far from me reached my ear. It seemed to

me that I could almost distinguish some one on my chair, and I was not

afraid, for I thought Madame Swartz had come to give me my drink. I did

not awake her; but when I fancied she roused herself, I thanked her for

her kindness and asked the hour. The person then left; and I heard a

stifled sob, so painful and distressing that the sweat even now comes to

my brow whenever I think of it. I do not know why it made this

impression. It seemed to me that I was thought very ill, perhaps dying,

and was pitied. I was not sick enough to feel myself in danger, and I

was not sorry to die with so little pain amid a life in which I had so

little to regret. At seven o'clock, when the old woman came to my room,

I was not asleep, and as I had been for some hours perfectly lucid, I

have a distinct remembrance of this strange visit. I asked her to

explain it. She merely shook her head, however, and said she did not

know what I meant, and that as she kept the keys under her pillow while

she slept, it was certain that I had a dream or was deceived. I had been

so far from delirium that about noon I felt well enough to take air, and

went on the esplanade, accompanied by my bird, which seemed to

congratulate me on my recovery. The weather was pleasant. It had begun

to grow warm, and the wind from the fields was pure and genial. Gottlieb

hurried to me. I found him much changed and much uglier than usual.

There was yet an expression of angelic kindness, and even of pure

intelligence, in the chaos of his face, whenever it was lighted up. His

eyes were so red and bloodshot that I asked if he was sick.

"'Yes,' said he, 'I have wept much.'

"'What distresses you, my poor Gottlieb?'

"'At midnight, my mother came from the cell, and said to my father, "No.

3 is very sick to-night. She has the fever sadly. We must send for the

doctor. I would not like to have her die on our hands." My mother

thought I was asleep, but I determined not to be so, until I found out

what she said. I knew you had the fever, and when I heard it was

dangerous I could not help weeping, until sleep overcame me. I think,

however, I wept in my sleep, for when I awoke this morning, my eyes were

like fire, and my pillow was wet.'"

"I was much moved at the attachment of poor Gottlieb, and I thanked him,

shaking his great black paw, which smells of leather and wax a league

off. The idea then occurred to me, that in his simple zeal the poor lad

might have paid me the visit. I asked him if he had not got up and come

to listen at the door. He assured me that he had not stirred, and I am

fully satisfied that he had not. The place in which he sleeps is so

situated that in my room I can hear his sighs through a fissure in the

wall, perhaps through the hollow in which I keep my journal and money.

Who knows but this opening communicates secretly with that near the

chimney in which Gottlieb keeps his treasures--his books and his tools.

In this particular he and I are alike, for each of us, like rats or

bats, has a nest in the wall in which we bury our riches. I was about to

make some interrogations, when I saw a personage leave Swartz's house

and come toward me. I had not as yet seen him here, and his appearance

filled me with terror, though I was far from being sure that I was not

mistaken about him.

"'Who is that man?' said I to Gottlieb, in a low tone.

"'No great things,' said he. 'He is the new adjutant. Look how Belzebub

bows his back, and rubs against his legs. They know each other well.'

"'What is his name?'

"Gottlieb was about to answer, when the adjutant said, with a mild voice

and good-humored smile, pointing to the kitchen--

"'Young man, your father wants you.'

"This was only a pretext to be alone with me, and Gottlieb left. I was

alone, and found myself face to face with whom--friend Beppo, think you?

With the very recruiter whom we met so unfortunately in the

Boehmer-wald, two years ago. It was Mayer. I could not mistake him, for,

except that he had become fat, he was unchanged. He was the same man,

with his pleasant manners, his simple bearing, his false face, his

perfidious good humor, and his _broum, broum_, as if he was imitating

the trumpet. From the band, he had been promoted to the department of

finding food for powder, and as a recompense for his good service in

that position, had been made a garrison officer, or rather a military

jailer, for which he was as well calculated as he was for his old

position of travelling turnkey, which he had discharged so well.

"'Mademoiselle, (he spoke French), I am your humble servant. You have a

very pleasant place to walk in--air, room, and a fine view, I

congratulate you, for you have an easy time in prison. The weather is

magnificent, and it is a real pleasure to be at Spandau, when the sun is

so bright. _Broum, broum._'

"These insolent jests so disgusted me, that I did not speak. He was not

disconcerted and said--

"'I ask your pardon for speaking to you in a tongue which perhaps you do

not understand. I forgot that you are an Italian--an Italian singer--a

superb voice, they say. I have a passion for music, and therefore wish

to make your time as pleasant as my order will permit. Ah! where the

devil did I have the honor of seeing you? I know your face

perfectly--perfectly.'

"'At the Berlin Theatre, probably, for I sang there during the winter

which has just passed.'

"'No; I was in Silesia. I was sub-adjutant at Glatz. Luckily, that devil

Trenck made his escape while I was away, on duty, near the frontiers of

Saxony. Otherwise I would not have been promoted, or been here, which,

in consequence of its proximity to Berlin, I like very much. The life of

a garrison officer, madame, is very melancholy. You may imagine how

_ennuyé_ one is when in a lonely country, and far from any large town,

especially when one loves music as I do. Where had I the honor to meet

you?'

"'I do not remember, sir, ever to have had that honor.'

"'I must have seen you on some stage in Italy or Vienna. You have

travelled a great deal. How many theatres have you belonged to?'

"As I did not reply, he continued, insolently, 'It matters not; I will

perhaps remember. What did I say? Ah! you, too, suffer from _ennui._'

"'Not so, sir.'

"'But are you not in close confinement? Is not your name Porporina?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Just so, prisoner No. 3. Well, do you not wish for amusement--for

company?'

"'Not at all, sir,' said I, thinking he intended to offer me his.

"'As you please. It is a pity. There is another prisoner here, extremely

well-bred--a charming woman, who, I am sure, would be delighted to make

your acquaintance.'

"'May I ask her name, sir?'

"'Her name is Amelia.'

"'Amelia what?'

"'Amelia--_broum--broum_; on my word I do not know. You are curious, I

see. Ah! that is a regular prison-fever.'

"I was sorry that I had repelled the advances of Mayer, for after having

despaired of making the acquaintance of this mysterious Amelia, and

having abandoned the idea, I felt myself attracted by a feeling of pity

towards her. I tried then to be more pleasant to this disagreeable man,

and he soon offered to put me in connection with No. 2. Thus he called

Amelia.

"'If this infraction of my arrest will not compromise you, sir, and if I

can be useful to this lady, who, they say, is ill from sadness and

_ennui_----'

"'_Broum--broum._ You take things literally, you do. You are kind. That

old scamp Swartz has made you afraid of his orders. What are they but

chimeras--good for door-keepers and wicket masters. We officers,

though,' (and as he spoke Mayer expanded himself, as if he had not been

long used to such an honorary title,) 'shut our eyes to such honorable

infractions of discipline. The king himself, were he in our place, would

do so. Now, signorina, when you wish to obtain any favor, go to no one

but myself, and I promise that you shall not be contradicted uselessly.

I am naturally humane and indulgent; God made me so; besides, I love

music. If once in a while you will be kind enough to sing for me, I will

hear you here, and you can do any thing you please with me.'

"'I will never abuse your kindness, Herr Mayer.'

"'Mayer!' said the adjutant, interrupting at once the _broum, broum_

which was on his lips. 'Why do you call me Mayer? Where the devil did

you pick up that name?'

"'I forgot, and beg your pardon, adjutant. I had a singing-master of

that name, and have been thinking of him all day.'

"'A singing-master? That was not me. There are many Mayers in Germany. I

am called Nauteuil, and am of French extraction.'

"'Well, sir, how shall I announce myself to that lady? She does not know

me, and will refuse my visit, as just now I refused her acquaintance.

People become so ill-tempered when they live alone.'

"'Ah, whoever she may be, the lady will be delighted to talk with you, I

am sure. Will you write her anything?'

"'I have nothing to write with.'

"'Ah, that is impossible. Have you no money?'

"'If I had, old Swartz is incorruptible. Besides, I do not know how to

bribe him.'

"'Well, I will take you this very evening to see No. 2--that is, when

you have sung something for me.'

"I was terrified at the idea of Mayer--or Nauteuil, as he now pleases to

call himself--introducing himself into my room, and I was about to

reply, when he made me understand his intentions more perfectly. He had

either not intended to visit me, or he read in my countenance an utter

distate to his company. 'I will listen to you,' said he, 'on the

platform which overlooks the tower in which you live. Sound ascends, and

I will hear you there well enough. Then I will have the doors opened,

and a woman shall escort you, I will not see you. In fact, it would not

do for me to seem to tempt you to an act of disobedience, though, after

all, in such a matter--_broum, broum_--there is a very easy way to get

out of any difficulty. It is only necessary to shoot prisoner No. 3 with

a pistol, and say that she was surprised, _flagrante delicto_,

attempting to escape. Ah! the idea is strange, is it not? In prison

strange ideas come into one's head. Adieu, signorina Porporina, till

this evening.'

"I was lost in mazes of reflection on the conduct of this wretch, and,

in spite of myself, became terribly afraid of him. I could not think so

base and contemptible a soul loved music so much as to do what he did

for the mere pleasure of hearing me. I supposed that the prisoner was

the Abbess of Quedlimburgh, and that, in obedience to the king's order,

an interview between her and myself was brought about, that we might be

watched, and some state secret, she was supposed to have confided to me,

be discovered. Under this impression I was as much afraid of the

interview as I had previously desired it, for I am absolutely ignorant

how much of this conspiracy, of which I am charged with being an

accomplice, is true or false.

"Thinking that it was my duty to brave all things to extend some

assistance to a companion in misfortune, whoever she might be, I began

to sing at the appointed time, to gratify the ears of the post-adjutant.

I sang badly enough, the audience inspiring me with no admiration.

Besides, I felt he listened to me merely for form's sake, and that

perhaps he did not hear me at all. When the clock struck eleven, I was

seized with the most puerile terror. I fancied that the adjutant had

received orders to get rid of me, and that he was about to kill me, as

he said, just as if he looked on the manner as a jest, when I stopped

outside of my cell. When the door opened, I trembled in every limb. An

old woman, very dirty and ugly, (far more so than Vrau Swartz,) bade me

follow, and preceded me up a narrow and steep staircase, built in the

hollow of the wall. When we reached the top, I found myself on the

platform, twenty feet above where I walk by day, and eighty or a hundred

above the fosse which surrounds all that portion of the esplanade. The

terrible old woman bade me wait there for a time, and went I know not

whither. My uneasiness was removed, and I was so glad to find myself in

the pure air, and so far up as to be able to see the country around,

that I was not uneasy at the solitude in which I was left. The silent

waters around the citadel, and on which its dark shadows fall, the trees

and fields, which I saw far in the distance, the immense sky, and even

the bats, whirling in space, all seemed, oh, God! grand and majestic,

for I had passed two months in prison, counting the few stars which

crossed the window of my cell. I could not enjoy this long. A noise

forced me to look around, and all my terrors revived when I beheld Mayer

near me.

"'Signora,' said he, 'I am sorry to tell you that you cannot see No. 2,

at least at present. She seems to be a very capricious person. Yesterday

she exhibited the greatest desire to have company, and just now she made

me this answer:--"Is prisoner No. 3 the person who sings in the tower,

and whom I hear every evening? Ah, I know her voice, and it is needless

for you to tell me her name. I had rather never see a living soul again,

than that unfortunate creature. She is the cause of all my troubles, and

I pray to God the expiation required from her may be as strictly exacted

as I am made to atone for the imprudent friendship I have felt for her."

This, signora, is the lady's opinion about you. It is only necessary to

know whether it is merited or not, and that concerns only your own

conscience. I have nothing to say about it, and am ready to take you

back to your cell when you think proper.'

"'Do so at once, sir,' said I, deeply mortified at being accused of

treachery before so miserable a wretch, and feeling the deepest

indignation against the one of the Amelias who had testified so much

ingratitude and bitterness.

"'I am not anxious that you should go,' said the new adjutant. 'You seem

to like to look at the moon. Do so as long as you please. It costs

nothing, and does no one any harm.'

"I was imprudent enough to take a little advantage of his kindness. I

could not make up my mind to leave the beautiful spectacle of which I

was, perhaps, to be deprived so soon, at once. Besides, I could not

resist the idea that Mayer was a bad servant, but too much honored by

being permitted to wait on me. He took advantage of my position, and

became bold enough to seek to talk to me. 'Do you know, signorina,' said

he, 'that you sing devilish well? I heard nothing better in Italy. Yet I

have been to the greatest theatre, and passed the principal artists in

review. Where did you make your first appearance? You have travelled

much?' As I pretended not to understand his questions, he added, boldly,

'Sometimes you travelled on foot, in male attire?'

"This question made me tremble, and I hastened to reply in the negative.

He said, 'Ah! you will not own it, but I never forget; and I recall to

my memory a strange adventure which you have not forgotten.'

"'I do not know what you wish to say,' said I moving from the wall, and

commencing to retreat to my cell.

"'A moment--a moment!' said Mayer.--'Your key is in my pocket, and you

cannot go back without me. Let me say a word or two to you.'

"'Not a word, sir: I wish to return to my room, and am sorry that I left

it.'

"'_Pardieu!_ you are behaving strangely: you act as if I was ignorant of

your adventures. Did you think I was simple enough not to know when I

found you in the Boehmer-wald, with a little dark-haired lad, not badly

made? Pshaw! I took the lad for the army of the King of Prussia. The

girl was not for him; though they say you pleased him, and were sent

here because you boasted of it. Well, fortune is capricious, and it is

useless to contend with her. You have fallen from a high position, but I

beg you not to be proud, and to be satisfied with what chances. I am

only a garrison officer, but have more power here than a king, whom no

one knows and no one fears, because he is too far away to be obeyed. You

see that I have power enough to pass anywhere and to soften your

captivity. Do not be ungrateful, and you will see the protection of an

adjutant at Spandau is as useful as that of a king at Berlin. Do you

understand? Do not fly me--do not make an outcry--for that would be

absurd--indeed, it would be pure folly for I might say anything I

pleased, and no one would believe you. I do not wish to scare you, for

my disposition is good. Think of this till I see you again: and

remember, I can immure you in a dungeon, or grant you amusements--starve

you to death, or give you means of escape, without being suspected.' As

I did not reply, and was completely terror-stricken at the idea of being

unable to avoid such outrages, and such cruel humiliation as he dared to

subject me to, this odious man added, without doubt fancying that I

hesitated, 'Why not decide at once? Are twenty-four hours necessary to

decide on the only step which it is proper for you to take, and to

return the love of a brave man, yet young, and rich enough to provide in

some other country a more pleasant abode than this prison?'

"As he spoke thus, the ignoble recruiter approached me, and acted as if

he would oppose my passage. He attempted to lay hold of my hands. I ran

to the parapet of the tower, being determined to spring over, rather

than suffer myself to be soiled by his caresses. At this moment,

however, a strange circumstance attracted my attention, and I pointed it

out to the adjutant as a means of enabling myself to escape. It secured

my safety; but, alas! came near costing the life of a person, perhaps

more valuable than mine.

"On the opposite rampart, on the other side of the ditch, a figure which

seemed gigantic, ran or rather leaped down the esplanade, with a

rapidity and adroitness which seemed prodigious. Having reached the

extremity of the rampart, the ends of which are flanked by towers, the

phantom ascended the roof of one of them, which was on a level with the

balustrade, and mounting the steep cone with cat-like activity, seemed

to lose itself in the air.

"'What the devil is that?' said the adjutant, forgetting the gallant in

the jailer. 'May the devil take me, if a prisoner is not escaping.' The

sentinel, too, is asleep. 'Sentinel,' cried he, with the voice of a

Stentor, 'look out!' Running towards a turret, in which is hung an alarm

bell, he rang it with the power of a professor of the devil's music. I

never heard anything more melancholy than this infernal tocsin, the

sharp clangor of which disturbed the deep silence of night. It was the

savage cry of violence and brutality, disturbing the aspirations of the

harmony of the water and the breeze. In an instant, all was in motion in

the prison. I heard the clangor of the guns in the sentinels' arms, as

they cocked and fired at any object of which they caught a glimpse. The

esplanade was lighted with a red blaze, which paled the azure

reflections of the moon. Swartz had lighted up a bonfire. Signals were

made from one rampart to another, and the echoes repeated them in a

plaintive and decreasing tone. The alarm gun soon mingled its terrible

and solemn note in this diabolical symphony. Heavy steps sounded on the

pavements. I saw nothing, but heard all these noises, and my heart was

filled with terror. Mayer had left me hastily, but I did not even

rejoice at being delivered from him. I reproached myself bitterly with

having pointed out to him, I knew not why, some unfortunate prisoner who

was seeking to escape. Frozen with terror, I waited the conclusion of

the affair, shuddering at every shot that was fired, and waiting to hear

the cries of the fugitive announce some new disaster to me.

"All this did not last an hour; and, thank heaven, the fugitive was

neither seen nor hit. To be sure of it, I rejoined the Swartzes on the

esplanade. They were so excited that they expressed no surprise at

seeing me outside my cell at midnight. It may be they had an

understanding with Mayer that I was to be at liberty on that night.

Swartz, having run about like a madman, and satisfied himself that none

of his ward had escaped, began to grow tranquil. His wife and he,

however, were struck with consternation, as if the escape of a prisoner

seemed a public and private calamity, and an outrageous violation of

justice. The other keepers, the soldiers who came and went, exchanged

words with them expressive of the same despair and terror. To them the

blackest of all crimes seems an attempt to escape. God of mercy! how

terrible did these mercenaries, devoted to the barbarous business of

depriving their fellows of precious liberty, seem to me. Suddenly,

however, it seemed that supreme equity had resolved to inflict a severe

punishment on my keepers. Vrau Swartz had gone into the lodge for a few

moments, and came out soon after, shouting:

"'Gottlieb! Gottlieb!--pause--do not fire--do not kill my son! It is

he--it is he, certainly!'

"In spite of the agitation of the old couple, I learned that Gottlieb

was neither in his bed, nor in any part of the house, and that in his

sleep he had, perhaps, resumed his old habit of walking over the roofs

of the houses. Gottlieb was a somnambulist.

"As soon as this report was circulated through the citadel, the

excitement passed away. Every keeper had time to make his rounds, and

ascertain that no prisoner had disappeared, and each returned in good

spirits to his post. The officers weire enchanted at the _dénoûement_;

the soldiers laughed at the alarm; and Madame Swartz was beside herself,

and her husband ran everywhere, exploring the fosse, fearing that the

fusilade and cannon shots had awakened Gottlieb amid his dangerous walk.

I went with him. It would, perhaps, have been a good time to attempt to

escape myself; for it seemed to me that the doors were open, and the

soldiers' attention averted. I put this idea aside, however, being

occupied only with the hope of finding the poor invalid who had

exhibited so much affection for me.

"Swartz, who never loses his presence of mind, seeing the day was

breaking begged me to go to my room, since it was contrary to his orders

to leave me at liberty at improper hours. He went with me to close the

door, but the first thing he saw was Gottlieb, peaceably asleep in my

chair. He had luckily been able to take refuge there before the alarm

had been communicated to the whole garrison, or his sleep had been so

profound and his foot so agile that he had escaped all dangers. I

advised his father not to awaken him suddenly, and promised to watch

over him until Vrau Swartz was informed of the happy news.

"When I was alone with Gottlieb, I placed my hand gently on his

shoulder, and, speaking in a low voice, sought to awaken him. I had

heard that somnambulists could place themselves in communication with

persons whom they liked, and answer them distinctly. My attempt was

wonderfully successful; 'Gottlieb,' said I, 'where have you been

to-night?'

"'To-night--is it night? I thought I saw the morning sun shining on the

roofs.'

"'You have then been there?'

"'Certainly: that blessed angel, the red-throat, came to the window and

called me. I followed him, and we have been high up, very high up, near

the stars, and almost to the angels' home. As we went up, we met

Belzebub, who sought to catch us. He cannot fly, however, because God

has sentenced him to a long penitence, and he sees the birds and angels

fly without being able to reach them.'

"'Yet, after having been among the clouds, you came back?'

"'The red-throat said, "Go see your sick sister," and I came back to

your cell with him.'"

"'Then, you can come into my cell?'

"'Certainly: I have, since you have been sick, frequently come to watch

you. The red-throat steals the keys from my mother's bed, and Belzebub

cannot help it; for when an angel, by hovering over him, has charmed

him, he cannot wake.'

"'Who taught you so much about angels and devils?'

"'My master,' said the somnambulist, with a childish look, full of the

most innocent enthusiasm.

"'Who is your master?' said I.

"'God first--and then--the sublime shoemaker.'

"'What is the name of the sublime shoemaker?'

"'Ah! it is a great name. I cannot tell you, for my mother, you see,

does not know him. She does not know that I have two books in the hole

by the chimney. One I do not read, and the other I have devoured for

four years. This is my heavenly food, my spiritual life, the book of

truth, the safety and light of the soul.'

"'Who wrote this book?'

"'He did. The shoemaker of Corlitz, Jacob Boehm.'

"We were here interrupted by the arrival of Vrau Swartz, whom I could

scarcely keep from throwing herself on her son and kissing him. This

woman adores her first-born, and therefore may her sins be remitted. She

spoke, but Gottlieb did not hear her; and I alone was able to persuade

him to go to bed, where, I was told, he slept quietly. He knew nothing

of what had happened, although his strange disease and the alarm are yet

talked of at Spandau.

"I was then in my cell, after having enjoyed a few hours of painful and

agitated half liberty. On such terms I do not wish to go out again. Yet

I might, perchance, have escaped. I will think of nothing else, now that

I am in the power of a wretch who menaces me with dangers worse than

death and worse than eternal torment. I will now think seriously of it,

and who knows but that I may succeed? Oh! God, protect me!"

"May 5.--Since the occurrence of the events I have described, I have

lived calmly, and have learned to think my days of repose days of

happiness, and to thank God for them, as in prosperity we thank him for

years which roll by without disaster. It is indisputable that, to leave

the apathy of ordinary life aside, it is necessary to have known

misfortune. I reproach myself with having suffered so many of my

childhood's days to pass by unmarked, without returning thanks to the

Providence which bestowed them on me. I did not say then that I was

undeserving, and therefore it is beyond a doubt, that I merit the evils

which oppress me.

"I have not seen the odious recruiting officer since. He is now more

feared by me than he was on the banks of the Moldau, when I took him for

a child-devouring ogre. Now I look on him as a yet more odious and

abominable persecutor: when I think of the revolting pretence of the

wretch, of the power he exerts around me, of the ease with which he can

come at night to my cell, without those servile Swartzes having even a

wish to protect me from him, I feel ready to die in despair. I look at

the pitiless bars which prevent me from throwing myself from the window.

I cannot procure poison, and have no weapon to open his heart. Yet I

have something to fill me with hope and confidence, and will not suffer

myself to be intimidated. In the first place, Swartz does not love the

adjutant, who would have a monopoly of air, sunlight, bread, and other

items of prison food. Besides, the Swartzes, especially the woman, begin

to conceive a liking for me on account of poor Gottlieb, and the

healthful influence which they say I exert on his mind. Were I menaced,

they would not perhaps come to my aid; but were this seriously the case,

they would perhaps enable me to appeal to the commandant. He, the only

time I saw him, appeared mild and humane. Gottlieb besides, would be

glad to do me a favor, and without making any explanation I have already

concerted matters with him. He is ready to take a letter which I have

prepared. I hesitate, however, to ask for aid before I am really in

danger; for if my enemy cease to torment me, he might treat as a jest a

declaration I was prudish enough to treat as serious. Let that be as it

may, I sleep with but one eye, and am training my physical powers for a

fearful contest if it should be necessary. I move my furniture, I pull

against the iron bars of the window, and harden my hands by knocking

against the walls. Anyone who saw me thus engaged, would think me mad or

desperate. I practise, however, with the greatest _sang froid_, and have

learned that my physical power is far greater than I had supposed. In

the security of ordinary life, we do not inquire into, but disregard,

our means of defence. As I feel strong, I become brave, and my

confidence in God increases with my efforts to protect myself. I often

remember the beautiful verses Porpora told me he read on the walls of a

dungeon of the inquisition at Venice."

'Di che mi fido, mi guarda Iddio!

Di che non mi fido mi guardero Io.'

"More fortunate than the wretch who traced the words of that sad prayer,

I can at least confide in the chastity and devotion of poor Gottlieb.

His attacks of somnambulism have not reappeared; his mother, too watches

him carefully. During the day, he talks to me in my room, for since I

saw Mayer I have not seen the esplanade.

"Gottlieb has explained his religious ideas to me. They are beautiful,

though often whimsical, and I wish to read Boehm's book--for he is a

disciple of his, certainly--to know what he has added from his own mind

to the theological cordwainer. He lent me this precious book, and at my

own peril and risk I became immersed in it. I can not understand how

this book disturbed the balance of the simple mind which looked at the

symbols of a mystic--himself sometimes mad--as literal. I do not flatter

myself that I can thoroughly understand and explain them; but I think I

catch a glimpse of lofty religious divination, and the inspiration of

generous poetry. What struck me most is his theory about the devil: 'In

the battle with Lucifer, God did not destroy him. See you not the

reason, blind man? God fought against God, one portion of divinity

striving against the other. I remember that Albert explained, almost in

the same way, the earthly and transitory reign of the spirit of evil,

and that the chaplain of Riesenberg listened to him with horror, and

treated his idea as pure _manicheism._ Albert said that Christianity was

a purer and more complete manicheism than his faith; that it was more

superstitious, as it recognised the perpetuity of the principle of evil,

while his system recognised the restoration of the spirit of evil, that

is to say its conversion and reconciliation. In Albert's opinion, evil

was but error, and the divine light some day would dissipate it. I own,

my friends, even though I seem heretical, that the idea of its being

Satan's doom everlastingly to excite evil, to love it, and to close his

eyes to the truth, seems, and always has seemed impious to me."

"Boehm seems to me to look for a millenium--that is to say, he is a

believer in the resurrection of the just, and thinks they will sojourn

with him in a new world, formed from the dissolution of this, during a

thousand years of cloudless happiness and wisdom. Then there will be the

complete union of souls with God, and the recompense of eternity, far

more complete than those of the millenium. I often remember having heard

Count Albert explain this symbol, as he told the stormy history of old

Bohemia, and of his beloved Taborites, who were embued with faith

renewed from the early days of Christianity. Albert had a less material

faith in all this, and did not pronounce on the duration of the

resurrection, or the precise age of the future world. He had, however, a

presentiment and a prophetic view of the speedy dissolution of human

society, which was to give place to an era of sublime renovation. Albert

did not doubt that his soul, on leaving the temporary prison of death,

would begin here below a series of existences, and would contemplate

this providential reward, and see those days which are at once so

terrible and so magnificent, and which have been promised to the human

race. This noble faith seemed monstrous to all orthodox persons at

Riesenberg, and took possession of me after having at first seemed

strange. Yet it is a faith of all nations and all days. In spite of the

efforts of the Roman Church to stifle it--or rather, in spite of its

being unable to purify itself of the material and superstitious, I see

it has filled many really pious souls with enthusiasm. They tell me it

was the faith of great saints. I yield myself to it therefore without

restraint and without fear, being sure any idea adopted by Albert must

be a grand one. It also smiles on me, and sheds celestial poetry on the

idea of death and the sufferings which beyond doubt are coming to a

close. Jacob Boehm pleases me. His disciple who sits in the dirty

kitchen, busy with sublime reveries and heavenly visions, while his

parents become petrified, trade, and grow brutal, seems in character

pure and touching to me, with this book which he knows by heart, but

does not understand, although he has commenced to model his life after

his master's. Infirm in body and mind--ingenuous, candid, and with

angelic morals, poor Gottlieb, destined beyond doubt to be crushed by

falling from some rampart, in your imaginary flight across the skies, or

to sink under premature disease--you will have passed from earth like an

unknown saint, like an exiled angel, ignorant of evil, without having

known happiness, without even having felt the sun that warms the earth,

so wrapped were you in the contemplation of the mystic sun which burns

in your mind. I, who alone have discovered the secret of your

meditations--I, who also comprehend the ideal beautiful, and had power

to search for and realize it, will die in the flower of my youth,

without having acted or lived. In the nucleus of these walls which shut

in and devour us, are poor little plants which the wind crushes and the

sun never shines on. They dry up without flourishing or fructifying; yet

they seem to revive. But they are the seeds which the wind brings to the

same places, and which seek to live on the wreck of the old. Thus

captives vegetate!--thus prisons are peopled!

"Is it not strange that I am here, with an ecstatic being of an order

inferior to Albert, but, like him, attached to a secret religion, to a

faith which is ridiculed, contemned, and despised! Gottlieb tells me

there are many other Boehmists in this country, that many cordwainers

openly confess his faith, and that the foundation of his doctrine is

implanted for all time in the popular mind, by many unknown philosophers

who of old excited Bohemia, and who now nurse a secret fire throughout

Germany. I remember the ardent Hussite cordwainers, whose bold

declarations and daring deeds in John Ziska's time, Albert mentioned to

me. The very name of Jacob Boehm attests this glorious origin. I cannot

tell what passes in the contemplative brain of patient Germany, my

brilliant and dissipated life making such an examination impossible.

Were Gottlieb and Zdenko, however, the last disciples of the mysterious

religion which Albert preserved as a precious talisman, I am still sure

that faith is mine, inasmuch as it proclaims the future equality of all

men and the coming manifestation of the justice and goodness of God on

earth! Ah, yes! I must believe in this kingdom, which God declared to

man through Christ! I must hope for the overturning of these iniquitous

monarchies, of those impure societies, that when I see myself here, I

may not lose faith in Providence!"

* * * * * * * *

"I have no news of No. 2. If Mayer has not told me an infamous

falsehood, Amelia of Prussia is the person who accuses me of treachery.

May God forgive her for doubting one who has not doubted her, in spite

of her accusations on my account. I will not attempt to see her. By

seeking to defend myself, I might yet more involve her, as I have, I

know not how, already."

* * * * * * * *

"My red-throat is still my faithful companion. Seeing Gottlieb without

his cat in my cell, it became familiar with him, and the poor lad became

mad with joy and pride. He calls it 'lord,' and will not _tutoy_ it.

With the most profound respect, and with the most religious trembling,

he offers it food. In vain do I attempt to persuade him it is but a

common bird, for I cannot remove the idea that some heavenly being has

adopted this form. I try to amuse him by giving him some idea of music,

and indeed I am sure he has a highly musical mind. His parents are

delighted with my care, and have offered to put a spinet in one of their

rooms, where I can teach him and study myself. This proposition, which

would have delighted me a short time since, I cannot accept. I do not

even dare to sing in my room, for fear of attracting the brutal

adjutant, ex-trumpeter, whom may God assail!

"May 10.--For a long time I had asked myself what had become of my

unknown friends, those wonderful protectors of whom the Count of Saint

Germain spoke, and who apparently have interfered only to hasten evils

with which the royal benevolence menaced me. If I mistake not the

punishment of conspirators, they have all been dispersed and oppressed;

or they have abandoned me, thought I, when I refused to escape from the

clutches of Buddenbrock, on the day I was taken from Spandau to Berlin.

Well, they are come again, and have made Gottlieb their messenger. Rash

men! may they not heap on that innocent lad the same evils to which they

have subjected me!

"This morning Gottlieb gave me furtively the following note:--

"'We seek to release you. The time draws near. A new danger, however,

menaces you, which will delay our enterprise. Place no confidence in any

one who seeks to induce you to fly, before we give you certain

information and precise details. A snare is laid for you. Be on your

guard, and be determined.

"'Your brothers,

"'THE INVISIBLES.'

"This note fell at Gottlieb's feet, as he was passing through one of the

prison courts. He firmly believes that it fell from heaven, and that the

red-throat has something to do with it. As I made him talk without

opposing his ideas too much, I learned strange things, which perhaps

have a foundation of truth. I asked him if he knew who the 'Invisibles'

were.

"'No one knows, although all pretend to.'

"'How! have you heard of them?'

"'When I was apprenticed to the master cordwainer, I heard much of them

in the city.'

"'They talk of them? Do the people know about them?'

"'I heard of them then, and of all the things I heard, few are worthy of

being remembered:--A poor workman in our shop hurt his hand so severely

that they were about to cut it off. He was the only support of a large

family that he loved, and for whom he worked. He came one day with his

hand bound up, and looked sadly at us as we worked saying, "You are

fortunate in having your hands free. I think I will soon have to go to

the hospital, and my old mother must beg to keep my little brothers and

sisters from starving." A collection was proposed, but we were all poor,

and I, though my parents were rich, had so little money that we could

not help our fellow-workman. All having emptied their pockets, attempted

to suggest something to get Franz out of his difficulties. None would do

anything; he had knocked at many doors and had been driven away. The

king, they say, is very rich, his father having left him much money; but

he uses it in enlisting his soldiers. It was war time, too, and our king

was away. All were afraid of want, and the poor suffered terribly, so

that Franz could not find sufficient aid from kind hearts. The lad never

received a shilling. Just then, a young man in the shop said, "I know

what I should do, if I were in your place. But perhaps you are afraid? I

am afraid of nothing," said Franz. "What must I do? Ask aid from the

Invisibles." Franz appeared to understand the matter, for he shook his

head with an air of dislike, and said nothing. Some young men asked what

they meant; and the response on all sides was, "You do not know the

Invisibles? any one may know that, you children! The Invisibles are

people who are never seen, but who act. They do all things, both good

and bad. No one knows where they live, yet they are everywhere. It is

said they are found in the four quarters of the globe. They murder many

travellers, yet assist others in their contests with brigands, according

as the travellers seem to them to deserve punishment or protection. They

are the instigators of all revolutions, go to all courts, direct all

affairs, decide on war and peace, liberate prisoners, assist the

unfortunate, punish criminals, make kings to tremble on their thrones!

They are the cause of all that is good and bad on earth. Sometimes it is

said they err, but their intention is good; and, besides, who can say

that a great misfortune to-day may not be a great happiness to-morrow?'"

"'We heard all this with great astonishment and admiration,' said

Gottlieb, and I heard enough to be able to tell you all laboring men,

and the poor and ignorant, think of the Invisibles. Some said they were

wicked people, devoted to the devil, who endows them with his power, who

gives them the gift of secret science, the power to tempt men by the

attraction of riches and honor, the faculty of knowing the future, of

making gold, of resuscitating the dead, of curing the sick, of making

the old young, of keeping the living from death, for they have

discovered the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. Others say

they are religious and beneficent men, who have united their fortunes to

assist those in need, and who hold communion to redress crime and reward

virtue. In our shop every one made his remark. "It is the old order of

the Templars," said one. "They are now called Free-Masons" said another.

"No," said a third, "they are Herrnhuters of Zinzindorf, or Moravians,

the old brothers of the Union, the ancient orphans of Mount Tabor: old

Bohemia is always erect, and secretly menaces the other powers of

Europe. It wishes to make the world republican.'"

"'Others said they were only a handful of sorcerers, pupils and

followers of Paracelsus, Boehm, Swedenborg, and now of Schœffer _the

lemonade-man_, (that is a good guess,) who, by miracles and infernal

machinations, wish to govern the world and destroy empires. The majority

came to the conclusion that it was the old tribunal of the Free-Judges,

which never was dissolved in Germany, and which, after having acted in

the dark for many centuries, began to revive and make its iron arm, its

sword of fire, and its golden balance to be felt.

"'Franz was unwilling to address them, for it is said those who accept

their benefits are bound through life to them, to the peril of their

soul and the danger of their kindred. Necessity, however, triumphed over

fear. One of our comrades, the one who had given him the advice, and who

was suspected of being affiliated with the Invisibles, though he denied

it, told him in secret how to make the signal of distress. What this was

we never knew. Some said that it was a cabalistic mark written over his

door in blood: others that he went at midnight to a mound between two

roads, and that a black cavalier came to him as he stood at the foot of

a cross. Some say that he merely wrote a letter which he placed in the

hollow of an old weeping willow at the gate of the cemetery. It is

certain that he received aid; that his family waited until he was well

and did not beg; that he was treated by a skillful surgeon, who cured

him. Of the Invisibles he said nothing, except that he would bless them

as long as he lived.'

"'But what do you, Gottlieb, who know more than the men in your shop,

think of the Invisibles? are they sectarians, charlatans, or impostors?'

"Here Gottlieb, who had spoken very reasonably, fell into his habitual

wanderings, and I could gather nothing but that they were beings really

invisible, impalpable, and, like God and his angels, unappreciable to

our senses, except when, to communicate with men, they assumed finite

forms."

"'It is evident to me,' said he, 'that the end of the world draws near.

Manifest signs declare it. The Antichrist is born, and they say he is

now in Prussia: his name is Voltaire. I do not know this Voltaire, and

the Antichrist may be some one else, for he is to bear a name commencing

with a W., and not a V. This name, too, will be German. While waiting

for the miracles which are about to be accomplished, God, who apparently

mingles in nothing, who is _eternal silence_, creates among us beings of

a nature superior to our own, both for good and evil--angels and

demons--hidden powers. The latter are to test the just, the former to

ensure their triumph. The contest between the great powers has already

begun. The king of evil, the father of ignorance and crime, defends

himself in vain. The archangels have bent the bow of science and of

truth, and their arrows have pierced the corslet of Satan. Satan roars

and struggles, but soon will abandon falsehood, lose his venom, and,

instead of the impure blood of reptiles, will feel the dew of pardon

circulate through his veins. This is the clear and certain explanation

of all that is incomprehensible and terrible in the world. Good and evil

contend in higher regions which are unattainable to men. Victory and

defeat soar above us, without its being possible for us to fix them.

Frederick of Prussia attributed to the power of his arms success which

fate alone granted him, as it exalted or depressed according to its

hidden purpose. Yes; I say it is clear that men are ignorant of what

occurs on earth. They see impiety arm itself against fate, and _vice

versa._ They suffer oppression, misery, and all the scourges of discord,

without their prayers being heard, without the intervention of the

miracles of any religion. They now understand nothing, they complain

they know not why. They walk blindfolded on the brink of a precipice. To

this the Invisibles impel them, though none know if their mission be of

God or the Devil, as at the commencement of Christianity, Simon, the

magician, seemed to many a being divine and powerful as Christ. I tell

you all prodigies are of God, for Satan can achieve none without

permission being granted him, and that among those called Invisibles,

some act by direct light from the Holy Spirit, while to others the light

comes through a cloud, and they do good, fatally thinking that they do

evil.'

"'This is a very abstract explanation, dear Gottlieb. Is it Jacob

Boehm's or your own?"

"'His, if it be your pleasure to understand him so--mine, if his

inspiration did not suggest it to me.'

"'Well, Gottlieb, I am no wiser after all than I was, for I do not know

if the Invisibles be good or bad angels to me.

"May 12.--Miracles really begin, and my fate seems to be in the hands of

the Invisibles. I will, like Gottlieb, ask if they be of God or of

Satan? To-day Gottlieb was called by the sentinel on duty over the

esplanade, and his post is on the little bastion at its end. This

sentinel, Gottlieb says, is an invisible spirit. The proof is, that

Gottlieb knows all the soldiers, and talks readily with them, when they

amuse themselves by ordering a pair of shoes, and then he appeared to

him of superhuman stature and undefinable expression.-- 'Gottlieb,' said

he, speaking in a low tone, 'Porporina must be delivered in the course

of three nights. This may be, if you can take the keys of her cell from

under your mother's pillow, and bring them hither to the extremity of

the esplanade. I will take charge of the rest. Tell her to be ready, and

remember, if you be deficient in prudence and zeal, you and I are both

lost.'

"This is the state of things. The news has made me ill with emotion. I

had a fever all night, and again heard the fantastic violin. To escape

from this prison, to escape from the terrors with which Mayer inspires

me--Ah! to do that, I am ready to risk my life. What, though, will

result to Gottlieb and the sentinel from my flight? The latter, though

he devotes himself so generously, I do not know. His unknown

accomplices, too, are about to assume a new burden in me. I tremble, I

hesitate, I am entirely undecided. I write to you without thinking to

prepare for my flight. No, I will not escape--at least until I am

certain of the fate of my friends and protectors. Gottlieb is resolved

on all. When I ask him if he is not afraid, he tells me that he would

suffer martyrdom gladly for me. When I add that perhaps he will regret

seeing me no more, he says that is his affair, and that I do not know

what he means to do. All this, too, seems to him an order of heaven, and

he obeys the unknown power which impels him, without reflection. I read

the notes of the Invisibles with care, and I am afraid the information

of the sentinel is the snare of which I should be afraid. I have yet

forty-eight hours before me. If Mayer comes again, I will risk all. If

he continues to forget me, and I have no better assurance than the

warning of this stranger, I will remain.

"May 13.--I trust myself to fate, to Providence, which has sent me

unhoped-for aid. I go, and rely on the powerful arm which covers me with

its ægis. As I walked this morning on the esplanade, hoping to receive

some new explanation from the spirits that hover around me, I looked at

the bastion, where the sentinel is. I saw two, one on guard, with his

arms shouldered, and another going and coming, as if he looked for

something. The height of the latter attracted my attention, for it

seemed to me that he was not a stranger to me. I could only look

stealthily at him, for at every turn of the walk I had to turn my back.

Finally, as I was walking towards him, he approached me, and though the

glacis was higher than where I stood, I knew him at once. I had nearly

cried aloud. It was Karl, the Bohemian, the deserter, who was saved from

Mayer, in the Boehmer-wald, whom I afterwards saw at Roswald, in

Moravia, at Count Hoditz's, and who sacrificed to me a terrible revenge.

He is devoted to me, body and soul, and his stern face, broad nose, red

brow, with eyes of tin, to-day seemed as beautiful to me as the angel

Gabriel.

"'That is he,' said Gottlieb, in a low tone; 'he is an emissary of the

Invisibles. He is your liberator, and will take you hence to-morrow

night.' My heart beat so violently that I could scarcely contain myself;

tears of joy escaped from my eyes. To conceal my emotion from the other

sentinel I approached the parapet which was farthest from the bastion,

and pretended to look at the grass in the fosse. I saw Karl and Gottlieb

exchange words, which I conld not entirely interpret. After a short time

Gottlieb came to me, and said, placidly: '_He_ will soon come down. _He_

will come to our house and drink a bottle of wine. Pretend not to see

him. My father is gone out. While my mother goes to the canteen for

wine, you will come to the kitchen, as if you were about to go back, and

then you can speak to him for a moment.'

"When Karl had spoken for a short time to Madame Swartz, who does not

disdain the entertainment of the veterans of the citadel _at their own

expense_, I saw Gottlieb on the threshold. I went in, and was alone with

Karl. Gottlieb had gone with his mother to the canteen. Poor child! it

seems that friendship has at once revealed to him the cunning and

pretence required in real life. He does intentionally a thousand awkward

things--lets the bottle fall, makes his mother angry, and delays her

long enough for me to have some conversation with my saviour.

"'Signora,' said Karl, 'here I am, and here, too, are you. I was taken

by the recruiters. Such was my fate. The king, however, recognised and

pardoned me, perhaps for your sake. He also permitted me to go away, and

promised me money, which, by-the-bye, he did not give me. I went to a

famous sorcerer, to find out how I could best serve you. The sorcerer

sent me to Prince Henry, and Prince Henry sent me to Spandau. Around us

are powerful people, whom I do not know, but who toil for us. They spare

neither money nor exertions, I assure you. Now all is ready. To-morrow

evening the doors will be open before you. All who could prevent our

escape have been won. All except the Swartzes are in our interests.

To-morrow they will sleep more soundly than usual, and when they awake

you will be far away. We will take Gottlieb, who is anxious to go, with

us. I will go with you, and will risk nothing, for all has been

foreseen. Be ready, signora. And now go to the esplanade, in order that

the old woman may not find us here.' I uttered my gratitude to Karl in

tears alone, and hurried away to hide my emotion from the inquisitorial

glance of Vrau Swartz.

"My friends, it may be I will see you again. I shall be able to clasp

you in my arms; I shall escape from that terrible Mayer, and see the

expanse of heaven, the green fields, Venice, Italy--sing again, and find

people to sympathise with me. This prison has revived my heart, and

renewed my soul, which was becoming stifled by indifference. I will

live, will love, be pious, and be good.

"Yet this is a deep enigma of the human heart:--I am terrified and

almost mad at the idea of leaving this cell, in which I have passed

three months, perpetually seeking to be calm and resigned. This

esplanade, over which I have walked with so many melancholy reveries;

old walls, which seem so high, so cold, and so calm, as the moonlight

shines on them: and this vast ditch, the water of which is so

beautifully green, and the countless flowers which the spring has strewn

on its banks. And my red-throat! Gottlieb says it will go with us, but

it is now asleep in the ivy, and will not be aware of our departure.

Dear creature! may you console and amuse the person who succeeds me in

this cell. May she love you as I have done.

"Well, I am about to go to sleep that I may be stronger and calmer

tomorrow. I seal up this manuscript, which I am anxious to carry away.

By means of Gottlieb I have procured a new supply of paper, pencil, and

light, which I will hide away, that other prisoners may experience as

much pleasure from them as I have."

* * * * * * * *

Here Consuelo's journal finished. We will now resume the story of her

adventures. It is needful to inform the reader that Karl had not

boasted, without reason, that he was aided and employed by powerful

persons. The invisible persons who toiled for the deliverance of our

heroine, had been profuse in their expenditures of gold. Many turnkeys,

eight or ten veterans, and even an officer, had been enlisted to stand

aside--to see nothing--and to look no farther for the fugitives than

mere form required. On the evening fixed for the escape, Karl had supped

with Swartz, and pretending to be drunk, had asked them to drink with

him. Mother Swartz was as fond of strong liquor as most cooks are. Her

husband had no aversion to brandy, when other people paid for it. A

narcotic drug stealthily introduced into their libations, assisted the

effect of the strong brew. The good couple got to bed, not without

trouble, and snored so loudly, that Gottlieb, who attributed everything

to supernatural influences, thought them enchanted when he attempted to

take possession of the keys. Karl had returned to the bastion, where he

was a sentinel, and Consuelo went with Gottlieb to that place and

ascended the rope ladder the deserter threw her. Gottlieb, who, in spite

of every remonstrance, insisted on escaping with them, became a great

difficulty in the way. He who in his somnambulism passed like a cat over

the roofs, could not now walk over three feet of ground. Sustained by

the conviction that he was assisted by an envoy of heaven, he was afraid

of nothing, and had Karl said so, would have thrown himself from the top

of the parapet. His blind confidence added to the dangers of their

situation. He climbed at hazard, scorning to see or make any

calculation. After having made Consuelo shudder twenty times, and twenty

times she thought him lost, he reached the platform of the bastion, and

thence our three fugitives passed through the corridors of that part of

the citadel in which the officers, initiated in their plot, were posted.

They advanced without any obstacle, and all at once found themselves

_vis-à-vis_ with the adjutant Mayer, _alias_ the ex-recruiter. Consuelo

thought all was lost. Karl, however, kept her from running away. "Do not

be afraid, signora," said he; "we have bought him over!"

"Wait a moment," said Nauteuil, hastily: "the adjutant, Weber, has taken

it into his head to sup with our old fool of a lieutenant. They are in

the room you will have to cross. We must contrive to get rid of them.

Karl, go back to your post, for your absence may be perceived. I will

come for you when it is time. Madame will go to my quarters and Gottlieb

will accompany me. I will say he is a somnambulist, and my two scamps

will follow him. When the room is empty, I will lock the door, and take

care they do not come back again."

Gottlieb, who was not aware that he was a somnambulist, stared wildly.

Karl, however, bade him obey, and he submitted blindly. Consuelo had an

insurmountable objection to entering Mayer's room. But Karl said, in a

low tone--"Why fear that man? He has too large a bribe to betray you.

His advice is good. I will return to the bastion. Too much haste would

destroy us!"

"Too much _sang-froid_ and coolness might also do so," thought Consuelo.

But she yielded to Karl's advice. She carried a weapon about her. As she

crossed the kitchen of the Swartzes she had taken possession of a

carving-knife, the hilt of which gave her not a little confidence. She

had given Karl her money and papers, keeping on her person nothing but

her crucifix, which she looked on almost as an amulet.

For greater security, Mayer shut her up in his room and left with

Gottlieb. After ten minutes, which to Consuelo appeared an age, Nauteuil

came for her, and she observed with terror, that he closed the door and

put the key in his pocket.

"Signora," said he, in Italian, "you have yet a half hour to wait. The

jackanapes are drunk, and will not quit the table until the clock

strikes one. Then the keeper, who has charge of the room, will put them

out of doors."

"What have you done with Gottlieb, sir?"

"Your friend, Gottlieb, is in safety behind a bundle of fagots, where he

can sleep soundly. He will not leave it until he is able to follow you."

"Karl will be informed of all?"

"Unless I wish to have him hung," said the adjutant, with a diabolical

expression, as Consuelo thought. "I do not wish to leave him behind us.

Are you satisfied, signora?"

"I cannot prove my gratitude now, sir," said Consuelo, with a coldness,

in which he sought in vain to conceal disdain; "but I hope ere long to

discharge all my obligations to you honorably."

"_Pardieu!_ you can discharge them at once," (Consuelo shrunk back with

horror.) "By exhibiting something of friendship to me," added Mayer,

with a tone of brutal and coarse cajolery. "You see, were I not

passionately fond of music, and were you not a pretty woman, I would not

violate my duty by thus enabling you to escape. Do you think I have been

led to this by avarice?--Bah! I am rich enough to do without all this,

and Prince Henry is not powerful enough to save me from the rope or

solitary confinement, if I should be discovered. All this requires some

consolation. Well, do not be proud; you know I love you; my heart is

susceptible, but you need not on that account abuse my tenderness. You

are not bigoted or religious; not you. You are an actress, and I venture

to say, you have succeeded by having granted your favors to the

managers. _Pardieu!_ if, as they say, you sang before Marie Theresa, you

know Prince Kaunitz and his boudoir. Now you have a less splendid room,

but your liberty is in my hands, and that is a more precious boon than

an empress's favor."

"Is this a threat, sir?" said Consuelo, pale with indignation and

disgust.

"No; but it is a prayer, signora."

"I hope you don't make it a condition?"

"Not so. No, no! by no means," said Mayer with impudent irony,

approaching Consuelo with open arms as he spoke.

Consuelo was terrified, and fled to the extremity of the room. Mayer

followed her. She saw that if she sacrificed honor to humanity she was

lost; and suddenly, inspired by the wild ferocity of Spanish women, as

Mayer embraced her, she gave him about three inches of the knife she had

concealed. Mayer was rather fat and the wound was not dangerous; but

when he saw the blood, for he was as cowardly as he was sensual, he

thought he was dead, and came near fainting, falling on his face on the

bed. He cried out, "I am murdered! I am dead!" Consuelo thought she had

killed him, and was also near fainting. After a few moments of silent

terror, she ventured to approach him and took the key of the room, which

he had let fall. No sooner had she possession of it than she felt her

courage revive. She went into the galleries and found all the doors open

before her. She went down a staircase, which led she knew not whither.

She could scarcely support herself, as she heard the alarm clock, and

not long after the roll of the drums. She also heard the gun which had

echoed through the night when Gottlieb's somnambulism had caused an

alarm. She sank on her knees at the last steps, and clasping her hands,

invoked God to aid Gottlieb and the generous Karl. Separated from them,

after having permitted them to expose their lives for her, she felt

herself powerless and hopeless. Heavy and hasty steps sounded on her

ears, the light of torches dazzled her eyes, and she could not say

whether this was reality or the effect of delirium. She hid herself in a

corner and lost all consciousness.

[Footnote 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.]