More than anything else, Consuelo was anxious for, and in need of,
liberty, after having passed so many days in slavery. She was then
delighted at being able to wander amid a vast space, which the efforts
of art and the effect of long avenues made appear yet vaster. After
walking about two hours, she felt herself becoming sad by the solitude
and silence which reigned in these beautiful spots. She had already gone
several times around it, without seeing even a human foot-print on the
fine and well-raked sand. Lofty walls, masked by immense vegetation,
prevented her from passing into unknown paths. She already had become
acquainted with those she had passed. In some places the wall was
interrupted by large fosses, filled with water, which allowed the eyes
to lose themselves in extensive lawns, which were bounded by wooded
mountains, or by the entrance into mysterious and charming alleys,
ending in thick glades. From her window, Consuelo saw all nature open to
her, but when she came down-stairs, she found herself shut in on every
side, and all the inside luxury could not extinguish the sensations of
again feeling herself a prisoner. She looked around for the enchanted
palace in which she had awaked. The house was a small one, in the
Italian style, luxuriantly furnished and elegantly decorated. Its site
was a pointed rock, picturesque as possible, but which was a natural
enclosure to all the garden, and was as impenetrable an obstacle to a
prospect as the high walks and heavy glacis of Spandau.
"My fortress," said Consuelo, "is beautiful, but it is evident that I am
not on that account less the prisoner."
She was about to rest herself on the terrace of the house, which was
adorned with flowers, and surmounted by a fountain. It was a delicious
place, and as it commanded only a view of the interior of the garden, a
few eminences in the park, and high mountains, the cliffs of which
towered above the trees, the prospect was beautiful and enlivening.
Consuelo, instinctively terrified at the care taken to establish her,
perhaps for a long time, in her new prison, would have given all the
catalpas and flowers, all the garden beds, for some quiet country nook,
with a modest cot, rough roads, and a district amid which she was free
to wander, and which she could explore at will. Between her residence
and the lofty mountains in the distance, there were no intermediate
plains to explore. Nothing met her eye but the indistinct dentillated
horizon, already lost in the mist of the setting sun. The nightingales
sang admirably, but not a human voice announced the presence of a single
habitant. Consuelo became aware that her house, at the verge of a large
park, or perhaps unexplored forest, was but a dependence of some vast
manor. What she now saw of the park inspired her with no wish to extend
her acquaintance with it. She saw nothing but flocks of sheep and goats
feeding on the flanks of the hills, with as much security as if the
approach of a mortal had been unknown to them. At last the evening
breeze agitated the poplar-wood which enclosed one of the sides of the
garden, and Consuelo saw, by the last light of day, the white towers and
sharp roofs of a large castle, half-hidden behind a hill, at perhaps the
distance of a quarter of a league. Notwithstanding her wish to think no
more of the chevalier, Consuelo persuaded herself that he must be there,
and her eyes were anxiously fixed on the imaginary castle perhaps, which
it seemed she was prohibited to approach, and which the veil of twilight
gradually hid.
When night had come, Consuelo saw the reflection of lights from the
lower story of her house pass beneath the neighboring shrubbery, and she
hastily descended, with the expectation of seeing some human, face
around her dwelling. She had not this pleasure. The servant she found
busy in lighting the lamps and fixing the table, was like the doctor,
clothed in the uniform of the Invisibles. He was an old servant, in a
coarse white wig, resembling wool, and clad in a full suit of
tomato-colored material.
"I humbly beg your pardon, madame," said he, with a broken voice, "for
appearing before you thus; but such are my orders and the necessity of
them are not matter of thought for me. I am subject to your commands,
madame, and my masters'. I am steward of this pavilion, director of the
garden, and _maitre d'hôtel._ They told me that madame, having
travelled a great deal, was used to wait on herself, and would not
require the services of a female. It would be difficult, madame, to
procure one, as I have none, and all those at the castle are forbidden
to come hither. A servant woman will arrive shortly to assist me, and a
gardener's lad, from time to time, will water the flowers and keep the
walks in order. About this I have a very humble observation to make.
This is, that any other servant than myself, with whom madame is
suspected of having spoken, or have made any sign, will at once be
dismissed--a great misfortune to them, for the service is good, and
obedience is well rewarded. Madame, I am sure, is too generous and too
just to tempt these poor people."
"Rest assured, Matteus," said Consuelo, "I will never be rich enough to
reward them, and I am not the person to lead any one to neglect their
duty."
"Besides," said Matteus, as if he were talking to himself, "I will never
lose sight of them."
"Precaution in that respect is useless. I have too great an obligation
to repay to the persons who brought me hither, and to those who have
received me to attempt to do anything to deceive them."
"Ah! is madame here of her own accord?" asked Matteus, whose curiosity
seemed deprived of nothing but the power of expression.
"I beg you to think me a voluntary prisoner, on parole."
"Ah, thus I understood it. I have never had charge of persons who were
here in any other way, though I have often seen my prisoners on parole
weep and torment themselves, as if they regretted having bound
themselves. God knows they were well attended to here. But under such
circumstances their liberty was always restored to them, for no one is
retained here by force. Madame, supper is ready."
The last observation of the tomato-colored major-domo at once restored
all Consuelo's appetite, and the supper was so good that she highly
complimented her attendant. The latter was much flattered at being
appreciated, and Consuelo saw that she had won his esteem. He was not a
whit more confiding, or less circumspect, on that account. He was both
shrewd and cunning. Consuelo soon saw into his character, for she
appreciated the mixture of kindness and address with which he
anticipated her questions, so as to avoid annoyance, and arrange his
replies. She therefore learned from him all she did not desire to know,
without in reality learning anything. "His masters were rich, powerful,
and very generous personages. They were, however, very strict,
especially in all that related to discretion. The pavilion was a
dependence on a beautiful residence, sometimes inhabited by its owners,
and sometimes confided to faithful, well-paid, and discreet servants.
The country was rich, fertile, and well governed, and the people were
not wont to complain of their lords. Did they do so, they would not get
on very well with Matteus, who consulted his master's interests, and who
never talked foolishly." Consuelo was so annoyed at his wise
insinuations and officious instructions, that directly after supper she
said, with a smile--
"I am afraid, Master Matteus, I am myself indiscreet in enjoying the
pleasure of your conversation so long. I need nothing more tonight, and
wish you good evening."
"Will madame do me the honor to ring when she needs anything? I live at
the back of the house, under the rock, in a kind of hermitage around
which I cultivate magnificent water-melons. I would be pleased if madame
would encourage me by a glance; but I am especially forbid ever to open
that gate to madame."
"I understand, Master Matteus. I am to confine myself to the garden, not
being subjected to your caprices, but to the will of my hosts. I will
obey."
"There is especial reason, madame, why you should, as the difficulty of
opening the heavy gate is very great. There is a spring in the lock
which might injure madame's hands, if she were not informed of it."
"My promise is a better security than all your bolts, Matteus. You may
rest assured on that point."
Many days rolled by, without Consuelo seeing anything of her hosts, and
without her eyes falling on the features of any individual; Matteus yet
wearing his mask, which, perhaps, was more agreeable than his face.
The worthy servitor attended on her with a zeal and punctuality for
which she could not be too thankful. He annoyed her terribly, however,
by his conversation, which she was forced to submit to, for he refused
positively and stoically every present she offered him, and she had no
other way to exhibit her gratitude than by suffering him to gossip. He
was passionately fond of the use of his tongue, a thing especially
remarkable, from the fact that his very employment required the most
absolute reserve, which he never laid aside. He possessed the art of
touching on many subjects, without ever referring to forbidden matters.
Consuelo was informed how much the kitchen-garden of the castle produced
every year--the quantity of carrots, of asparagus, &c.--how many fawns
were dropped in the park, the history of the swans in the lake, the
number of pheasants, and the details of harvest. Not one word was said
to enable her to understand in what country she was, if the owners of
the castle were absent or present, if she was ever to see them, or was
to remain for an indefinite time in the pavilion. In a word, nothing
that really interested her, ever escaped from the prudent though busy
lips of Matteus. She fancied she would have violated all propriety, had
she come even within ear-shot of the gardener or servant-girl, who,
moreover, came early in the morning and disappeared almost immediately
after she got up. She restricted herself to looking from time to time
across the park, without seeing any one, and watching the outlines of
the castle, which was illuminated with a few lights, which, by-the-bye,
were soon extinguished.
She soon relapsed into a state of deep melancholy, which, she had
vigorously striven against at Spandau. These feelings attacked her in
this rich abode, where she had all the luxuries of life around her. Can
any one of the blessings of life really be enjoyed alone? Prolonged
solitude wearies us of the most beautiful objects, and fills the
strongest mind with terror. Consuelo soon found the hospitality of the
Invisibles as annoying as it was strange, and intense disgust took
possession of all her faculties. Her noble piano seemed to sound too
loudly through the vast and echoing rooms, and she became afraid of the
sound of her own voice. When she ventured to sing, if she were surprised
by twilight, she thought she heard the echoes reply angrily to her, and
fancied she saw flitting around the silk-hung walls and silent tapestry,
uneasy shadows, which faded away when she sought to watch them, and hid
themselves behind the hangings, whence they mocked, imitated, and made
faces at her. All this was but the effect of the evening breeze,
rustling amid the leaves, or the vibration of her own voice around her.
Her imagination, weary of questioning the mute witnesses of her
_ennui_--the statues, pictures, and Japan vases, filled with flowers,
and the gorgeous mirrors--became the victim of a strange terror, like
the anticipation of some unknown misfortune. She remembered the strange
power attributed to the Invisibles by the vulgar, the apprehensions with
which Cagliostro had filled her mind, the appearance of _la balayeuse_
in the palace at Berlin, and the wonderful promises of Saint Germain in
relation to the resurrection of Albert. She said all these unexplained
matters were perhaps the consequence of the secret action of the
Invisibles in society, and on her particular fate. She had no faith in
their supernatural power, but she saw they used every means to acquire
influence over the minds of men, by attacking the imagination through
promises and menaces, terror or seductions. She was then under the
influence of some formidable revelation or cruel mystification, and,
like a cowardly child, was afraid at being so timid.
At Spandau she had aroused her will against external perils and real
suffering: she had triumphed, by means of courage, over all, and there
resignation seemed natural to her. The gloomy appearance of the fortress
harmonized with the solemn meditations of solitude, while in her new
prison all seemed formed for a life of poetical enjoyment or peaceful
friendship. The eternal silence, the absence of all sympathy, destroyed
the harmony, like a monstrous violation of common sense. One might have
compared it to the delicious retreat of two lovers, or an accomplished
family, become, from a loved hearthside, suddenly hated and deserted, on
account of some painful rupture or sudden catastrophe. The many
inscriptions which decorated it, and which were placed on every
ornament, she did not laugh at now as mere puerilities. They were
mingled encouragements and menaces, conditional eulogiums corrected by
humiliating accusations. She could no longer look around her, without
discovering some new sentence she had not hitherto remarked, and which
seemed to keep her from breathing freely in this sanctuary of suspicious
and vigilant justice. Her soul had retreated within itself since the
crisis of her escape and instantaneous love for the stranger. The
lethargic state which she had, beyond doubt, been intentionally thrown
into, to conceal the locality of her abode, had produced a secret
languor and a nervous excitability resulting from it. She therefore felt
herself becoming both uneasy and careless, now terrified at nothing, and
then indifferent about everything.
One evening she fancied that she heard the almost imperceptible sound of
a distant orchestra. She went on the terrace, and saw the castle
appearing beyond the foliage in a blaze of light. A symphony, lofty and
clear, distinctly reached her. The contrast between a festival and her
isolation touched her deeply; more so than she was willing to own. So
long a time had elapsed since she had exchanged a word with rational or
intelligent beings, for the first time in her life she was anxious to
join in a concert or ball, and wished, like Cinderella, that some fairy
would waft her through the air into one of the windows of the enchanted
palace, even if she were to remain there invisible, merely to look on
persons animated by pleasure.
The moon was not yet up. In spite of the clearness of the sky, the shade
beneath the trees was so dense, that Consuelo, had she been surrounded
by invisible watchers, might have glided by. A violent temptation took
possession of her, and all the specious reasons which curiosity
suggests, when it seeks to assail our conscience, presented themselves
to her mind. Had they treated her with confidence by dragging her
insensible to this prison, which, though gilded, was severe? Had they
the right to exact blind submission from her which they had not deigned
to ask for? Besides, might they not seek to tempt and attract her by the
simulation of a festival--all this might be, for all that related to the
Invisibles was strange. Perhaps, in seeking to leave the enclosure she
would find an open gate, or a boat which passed through some arch in the
wall of the park. At this last fancy, the most gratuitous of all, she
descended into the garden, resolved to tempt her fate. She had not gone
more than fifty paces, when she heard in the air a sound similar to that
produced by the wings of a gigantic bird, as it rises rapidly to the
clouds. At the same time, she saw around her a vivid blue blaze, which
after a few minutes was extinguished, to be reproduced with a sharp
report. Consuelo then saw this was neither lightning nor a meteor, but
the commencement of a display of fireworks at the castle. This
entertainment promised her, from the top of the terrace a magnificent
display, and like a child, anxious to shake off the _ennui_ of a long
punishment, she returned in haste to the pavilion.
By the blaze of these factitious lights, sometimes red and then blue,
which filled the garden, she twice saw a black man standing erect and
near her. She had scarcely time to look at him, when the luminous bomb
falling with a shower of stars, left all more dark than ever, after the
light which had dazzled her eyes. Consuelo then became terrified, and
ran in a direction entirely opposite to that in which the spectre had
appeared, but when the light returned, saw herself again within a few
feet of him. At the third blaze, she had gained the door of the
pavilion, but again found him before her and barring her passage. Seized
with irrepressible terror, she cried aloud, and nearly swooned. She
would have fallen backward from the steps, had not her mysterious
visitor passed his arm around her waist. Scarcely had he touched her
brow with his lips, than she became aware it was the stranger--the
_Chevalier_--the one whom she loved, and by whom she was beloved.