On the next day Consuelo felt overcome both in body and mind. The
cynical revelations of Supperville, following so closely on the paternal
encouragements of the Invisibles, produced the same effect as if she
had, after a pleasant warmth, been dipped in iced-water. She had been
lifted to heaven, to sink again to earth, She was almost angry with the
doctor for having undeceived her; for in her dreams she had already
seen, clad with dazzling majesty, the august tribunal which opened its
arms to her as a home, as a refuge against the dangers of earth and the
mistakes of youth.
Nevertheless, the doctor seemed to merit the gratitude of Consuelo, who
recognised it without being able to sympathise with him. Was not his
conduct that of a sincere, brave, and disinterested man? Consuelo,
however, found him too skeptical, too much of a materialist, and too
much inclined to contemn good intentions and ridicule good characters.
In spite of what he had said of the imprudent and dangerous credulity of
the prince, she formed an exalted idea of the noble old man, who was
ardent for good, and implicit in his belief of human perfectibility. She
recalled to mind the conversation she had in the subterranean hall,
which seemed full of calm authority and austere wisdom. Charity and
kindness appeared beneath the mask of affected sternness, ready to burst
forth at the first impulse of Consuelo's heart. Would swindlers,
avaricious men, and charlatans have thus acted and spoken to her? The
bold enterprise of reforming the world, which seemed so ridiculous to
Supperville, was the eternal wish, the romantic hope with which Albert
had inspired his wife, and with which she had found something
sympathetic in the diseased but generous head of Gottlieb. Was not this
Supperville to be hated, then, for having sought to tear away, at the
same time, her faith in God and her confidence in the Invisibles.
Consuelo, more given to poetry of the soul, than to the dry
contemplation of the sad realities of life, contended against the words
of Supperville, and attempted to disprove them. Had he not indulged in
gratuitous suppositions, had he not owned that he was not initiated in
the subterranean world, and seemed ignorant even of the name and
existence of the Invisibles? Trismegistus might be a Chevalier
d'Industrie, yet the Princess Amelia affirmed the contrary, and the
friendship of Golowken, the best and wisest of the grandees Consuelo had
met at Berlin, spoke in his favor. If Cagliostro and St. Germain were
both impostors, it did not render it impossible for them to be imposed
on by a wonderful likeness. Though the three were condemned, it did not
follow they were a part of the council of the Invisibles; and that body
of venerable men might reject their advice as soon as Consuelo had
established that Trismegistus was not Albert. Would it not be time to
withdraw her confidence after this decisive test, should they persist in
seeking to impose on her so grossly? Consuelo resolved, at that point,
to tempt fate, and learn more of the Invisibles, to whom she was
indebted for liberty, and whose paternal reproaches had reached her
heart. She determined on this; and while awaiting the issue of the
affair, resolved to consider what Supperville had told her as a test to
which he had been authorised to subject her, or as a means of giving
vent to his spleen against rivals who had more influence with, or were
better treated by the prince than himself.
One hypothesis tormented Consuelo more than all others. Was it
absolutely impossible for Albert to be alive? Supperville had not
observed the phenomena which had preceded, by two years, his final
illness. He even refused to believe them, persisting in thinking that
the frequent absences of Albert in the cavern were consecrated to
gallant rendezvous with Consuelo. She alone, with Zdenko, was in the
secret of these lethargic crises. The vanity of the doctor would not
permit him to own that he was mistaken in declaring him dead. Now that
Consuelo was aware of the existence and material power of the Council of
the Invisibles, she dared conjecture that means had been found to rescue
Albert from the horrors of a premature burial, and that for secret
purposes he had been received among them. All the revelations of
Supperville, in relation to the mysteries and whimsicalities of the
castle, and the prince aided the confirmation of this supposition. The
resemblance of the adventurer, known as Trismegistus, might complicate
the marvellous part of the circumstance, but could not destroy its
possibility. This idea took such complete possession of Consuelo that
she relapsed into profound melancholy. Were Albert alive, she would not
hesitate to rejoin him as soon as she was permitted, and would devote
herself eternally to him. She was now more than ever aware how much she
would suffer from a devotion in which there was no element of love. The
Chevalier appeared to her as a cause of deep regret, and her conscience
a source of future remorse. Were she forced to renounce him, the new
love would, like all love which was opposed, become a passion. Consuelo
did not ask herself with hypocritical resignation, why her dear Albert
would leave the tomb where he was so comfortable. She said it was in her
destiny to sacrifice herself to this man, perhaps after he was dead, and
she wished to fulfil this fate: yet she suffered strangely, and lamented
the Chevalier, her most ardent, and her involuntary love.
She was roused from her meditations by a faint noise and the fluttering
of a wing on her shoulder. She uttered an exclamation of surprise and
joy at seeing a pretty red-throat enter the room and come kindly to her.
After a hesitation of a few minutes, the bird took a flight from her
hand.
"Is it you, my poor friend, my faithful companion?" said Consuelo, with
tears of childish joy. "Can it be possible that you have sought for and
found me? No, that cannot be. Pretty, confiding creature, you are like
my friend, yet are not he. You belong to some gardener, and have escaped
from the enclosure where you pass your time amid the flowers. Come to
me, consoler of the prisoner. Since the instinct of your race impels you
to associate with the solitary captive, I will bestow on you the love I
felt for another of your race."
Consuelo toyed half an hour with the little captive, when she heard
without a kind of whistle, which made the intelligent creature tremble.
It dropped the food she had given it, made its great eyes glisten and
expand, and flew through the window in obedience to an incontestable
authority. Consuelo looked after it, and saw it lose itself amid the
foliage. While looking at it, she saw in the depth of the garden, on the
other side of the stream which bounded it, a person easy to be
recognised, notwithstanding the distance. Gottlieb was walking along the
bank, apparently happy, and attempting to leap and bound. Forgetting for
a moment the order of the Invisibles, Consuelo sought, by waving her
handkerchief, to attract his attention; but he was absorbed by the
thought of regaining his bird. He looked up among the trees as he
whistled, and went on without having seen Consuelo.
"Thank God, and the Invisibles too! in spite of Supperville," said she.
"The poor lad appears happier and in better health. His guardian angel,
the red-throat, is with him. This appears the presage of a smiling fate
to me also. Come, let me not doubt our protectors any more. Distrust
withers the heart."
She sought how she could occupy her time in a useful manner, to
anticipate the new moral education announced to her; and for the first
time since she had been at ****, she went into the library, which she
had as yet only looked at in a cursory manner, and resolved to examine
seriously the selection of books at her disposal. They were not
numerous, but were extremely curious, and probably rare, if not unique.
There was a collection of the writings of the most remarkable
philosophers of all ages and nations, abridged so as to contain only the
very essence of their doctrines, and translated into languages Consuelo
could read. Many, never having been published, were in manuscript,
particularly the heretical writers of the middle ages, precious spoils
of the past, fragments and even complete copies of which had escaped the
search of the Inquisition and the later violations of the old castles of
the German heretics, during the Thirty Years' War. Consuelo could not
appreciate the value of these philosophical treasures, collected by some
ardent and persevering bibliographer. The originals would have
interested her, on account of their characters and vignettes. She had,
however, only a translation, made carefully by some modern calligrapher.
She looked first for the faithful translations of Wickliffe, John Huss,
and the renowned Christian philosophers who attached themselves in other
days, though at different eras, to those fathers of the new religion.
She had not read them, but they were familiar to her from her long
conversations with Albert. As she turned over the leaves in a cursory
manner, she became better and better acquainted with them. Consuelo had
an eminently philosophical mind. Had she not lived amid the reasoning
and clear-sighted world of her day, she would easily have become
superstitious and fanatical. As it was, she understood the enthusiastic
discourses of Gottlieb better than Voltaire's philosophy, then studied
so ardently by the women of Europe. This intelligent and simple girl was
courageous and tender, but had not a mind formed for subtle reasoning.
She was educated by the heart, rather than the head. Seizing the
revelations of sentiment by prompt assimilation, she was capable of
being instructed philosophically. She was wonderfully so for her age,
sex, and position, from the instruction of the eloquent and loved
Albert. Artistic organizations acquire more in the emotions of an
address or lecture, than in the cold and patient study of books. Such
was Consuelo. She could scarcely read a page attentively, yet, if a
great thought, glowingly expressed, struck her, she repeated it like a
musical phrase, and the sense, however profound it might be, entered her
mind like a divine ray. She existed on this idea, and applied it to all
her emotions. This was to her a real power, and lasted her through life.
To her it was not a vain sentence, but a rule of conduct, an armor for
combat. Why analyse and study the book whence she had got it? The whole
book was in her breast as soon as the inspiration, seized her.
Her destiny required her to do nothing more. She did not pretend to
claim a knowledge of the world of philosophy. She felt the warmth of the
secret revelations which have been granted to poetic souls when in love.
In this disposition she looked for several days over books, without
reading anything. She could give an account of nothing; more than one
page, however, in which she had read but one line, was bedewed with
tears, and she often hurried to her piano, to _improvise_ songs, the
tenderness and grandeur of which were the burning and spontaneous
expression of her generous emotion.
A whole week rolled over her, in a solitude which Matteus' association
did not trouble. She had resolved not to address the least question to
him, and perhaps he had been scolded for his indiscretion, for he was
now as silent as he had been prolix heretofore. The red-throat came to
see Consuelo every day, but without Gottlieb. It seemed this tiny being
(Consuelo was half inclined to think it enchanted) came at regular hours
to amuse her, and returned punctually at noon to its other friend. In
fact, there was nothing wonderful about it. Animals at liberty have
certain customs, and make a regular disposition of their time, with more
foresight and intelligence than domestic animals. One day Consuelo
observed that it appeared constrained and impatient, and that it did not
fly so gracefully as usual. Instead of perching on her fingers, it
thought of nothing but pecking with its nails and bill at an irritating
impediment. Consuelo approached him, and saw a black thread hanging from
its wing. The poor creature had been taken in a snare, she thought, and
had escaped only by its address, bearing off with it a portion of its
chain. She had no difficulty in removing it, yet had not a little in
taking off a piece of silken thread, adroitly fastened on the back, and
which held under the left wing a silken bag of some very thin material.
In this bag she found a letter, written in almost imperceptible
characters, on such thin paper that she feared to break it by a breath.
At the first glance she saw it was a message from the dear unknown. It
contained but these few words:--
"A great task has been confided to me, in the hope that the pleasure of
doing it well would calm the uneasiness of my passion. Nothing, not even
the exercise of my charity, can distract the soul of which you are the
mistress. I accomplished my task in less time than you would think
possible. I am back again, and love you more than ever. Our sky is
growing brighter. I do not know what has passed between you and _them_,
but they seem more favorable, and my love is no longer treated as a
crime, but merely as a mischance--a misfortune. Ah! they do not know me!
They know not that I cannot be unhappy with your love. But you do. Tell
it to the red-throat of Spandau. It is the same. I brought it here in my
bosom. May he repay me for all my trouble by bringing me a message from
you. Gottlieb will deliver it faithfully to me, without looking at it."
Mysterious and romantic circumstances enflame the fire of love. Consuelo
experienced the most violent temptation to reply. The fear of
displeasing the Invisibles, the scruple of not violating her promises,
had but little influence on her, we must own. When she thought that she
might be discovered, and cause a new exile of the Chevalier, she had
courage enough to resist. She released the red-throat, without one word
in reply, but not without tears at the sorrow and disappointment her
lover would experience at her having acted with such severity.
She sought to resume her studies, but neither study nor music appeared
to dissipate the agitation which had boiled in her bosom, since she knew
the Chevalier was near her. She could not refrain from hoping that he
would disobey the Invisibles, and that she would see him some evening
glide beneath the flowery bushes of the garden. She was unwilling to
encourage him, however, to show himself. All the evening she was shut
up, looking, with a beating heart, through the window, yet determined
not to reply to his call. She did not see him appear, and exhibited as
much grief and surprise as if she had relied on a temerity which she
would have blamed, and which would have awakened all her terrors. All
the little mysterious dramas of young and burning love were formed in
her bosom in the course of a few hours. It was a new phase of emotions,
unknown hitherto to her. She had often, at evening, waited for Anzoleto
on the canals of Venice, or on the terraces of the _Corte Minelli_; yet
when she did so, she thought over her morning's lesson, and repeated the
rosary-prayers, to while away the time, without fear, trembling, or
sorrow. This childish love was so closely united to friendship, that it
bore no relation to what she now experienced for Leverani. On the next
day she waited anxiously for the red-throat, which did not come. Had he
been seized _en route_ by some stern Argus? Might not the fatigue of the
silken girdle and heavy burden have prevented him from coming? His
instinct, however, would teach him that Consuelo had on the evening
before released him, and he would perhaps return to her, to receive the
same service.
Consuelo wept all day long. She, who had no tears for great misfortunes,
who had not shed one while she was a prisoner at Spandau, felt crushed
and burned up by the sufferings of her love, and sought in vain for the
strength which had sustained her in all the other evils of life.
One evening she forced herself to play on the piano, and while doing so,
two black figures appeared at the door of the music room, without her
having heard them ascend. She could not repress a cry of terror at the
apparition of these spectres, but one of them, in a voice gentler than
before, said, "Follow us." She got up in silence to obey them. They gave
her a silken bandage, saying, "Cover your eyes, and swear that you will
do so honestly. Swear also that if this bandage fall, or become
deranged, that you will close your eyes until we bid you open them."
Consuelo said--"I swear."
"Your oath is accepted," said the guide. Consuelo was led, as before,
into the cavern. Presently she was told to halt, and an unknown voice
said:
"Remove the bandage yourself. Henceforth none will watch you, and you
will have no guardian but your own word."
Consuelo found herself in an arched room, lighted by a single lamp
hanging from the roof. A single judge, in a red cloak and livid mask,
sat in an old arm-chair, by the side of a table. He was bowed with age,
and a few grey locks escaped from his hood. His voice was broken and
trembling. The aspect of age changed into respectful deference the fear
Consuelo could not repress when she met one of the Invisibles.
"Listen to me," said he, as he bade her seat herself on a stool at some
distance. "You are now before your confessor. I am the oldest of the
council, and the quiet of my whole life has made my mind as chaste as
that of the purest of Catholic priests. I do not lie. If you wish to
reject me, however, you are at liberty to do so."
"I receive you," said Consuelo, "with this understanding, that my
confession does not implicate that of another!"
"Vain scruple," said the old man. "A scholar does not reveal to a
schoolmaster the fault of his comrade, yet a son hurries to tell a
father where a brother has erred, because he is aware that the parent
represses and corrects the fault, without chastising it. Such, at least,
should be the law of every family which seeks to practise this idea.
Have you any confidence?"
This question, which sounded not a little arbitrary in the mouth of a
stranger, was uttered with such gentleness, and in such a sympathetic
tone, that Consuelo, led astray, and moved, replied unhesitatingly, "I
have entire confidence."
"Listen then," said the old man. "When you first appeared before us, you
made use of the following expression, which we have remembered and
weighed:--'It is a strange moral torture for a woman to confess herself
before eight men.' Your modesty has been considered. You will confess
yourself to me alone, and I will not betray your confidence. I have
received full power, (and I am the highest of the council,) to direct
you in an affair of a delicate nature, and which has not an indirect
connection with your initiation. Will you answer me freely? Will you
open your whole heart to me?"
"I will."
"I will not inquire into the past. You have been told that the past does
not belong to us. But you have been warned to purify your soul from the
moment which marked the commencement of your adoption. You must think of
the difficulties and the consequences of this adoption. You are not
accountable to me alone, but other things are at stake. Reply then."
"I am ready."
"One of my children loves you. During the last eight days, have you
acknowledged or repelled his love?"
"I have repelled it in every manner."
"I know it. The least of your actions are known to us. I ask the secrets
of your heart, not of your conduct."
Consuelo felt her cheeks glow and was silent.
"You think my question cruel. You must reply to it, notwithstanding. I
wish to guess at nothing. I must know and record."
"Well, I do love," said Consuelo, yielding to the necessity of truth.
Scarcely had she pronounced this word, than she shed tears. She had
abandoned the virginity of her soul.
"Why do you weep?" said the confessor mildly. "Is it from shame or from
repentance?"
"I do not know. I think it is not from repentance. I love too well for
that."
"Whom do you love?"
"You know--not I."
"But if I do not? His name?"
"Leverani."
"That is the name of no one. It is common to all our members who choose
to bear it. It is a false name, such as most of our brethren assume in
their travels."
"I know him by no other name, and did not learn it from him."
"His age?"
"I did not ask him."
"His face?"
"I never saw it."
"How would you know him?"
"It seems to me I would recognise him by touching his hand."
"If your fate were based on such a test, and you failed?"
"It would be horrible."
"Shudder then at your imprudence, unfortunate child; you love madly."
"I know it."
"Do you not combat it in your heart?"
"I cannot."
"Wish you to do so?"
"I do not even wish to."
"Your heart is then free from all other affections?"
"Entirely."
"Are you a widow?"
"I think I am."
"And were you not?"
"I would combat my love, and I _would_ do my duty."
"With sorrow? with grief?"
"With despair, perhaps; yet I would do it."
"You did not then love your husband."
"I loved him as a brother. I did all I could to love him."
"And could not?"
"Now that I know what love is, I say No."
"Do not then suffer from remorse. Love cannot be forced. Do you think
you love this Leverani? seriously? religiously? ardently?"
"So do I feel in my heart. Unless indeed he be unworthy."
"He is not unworthy."
"Indeed, my father!" said Consuelo, carried away by gratitude, and
seeking to kneel before the old man.
"He is as worthy of intense love as Albert himself. You must, however,
renounce him."
"It is I then who am unworthy?" said Consuelo sadly.
"You will be worthy, but you are not free. Albert of Rudolstadt is not
dead."
"My God! pardon me," murmured Consuelo, falling on her knees, and hiding
her face in her hands.
The confessor and penitent maintained a long and painful silence. Ere
long Consuelo, remembering what Supperville had said, was struck with
horror. This old man, whose appearance had filled her with veneration,
could he lend himself to such an infernal plot? Did he betray the
sensibility of the unfortunate Consuelo, and cast her into the arms of a
base impostor? She looked up, pale with terror, with dry eyes and
quivering lips. She attempted to pierce the impenetrable and
unimpressionable mask, which, it may be, concealed the criminal's
pallor, or the hellish sneer of a villain.
"Albert lives?" said she. "Are you very sure? Do you know there is a man
like him, whom even I fancied was him?"
"I know all that absurd story," said the old man. "I know all
Supperville's mad fancies, and all he has done to exculpate himself from
the blunder he committed in suffering a man who was merely in a state of
lethargy, to be buried. Two words will destroy all that scaffolding of
madness. The first is, that Supperville was declared unworthy of the
secondary degrees of the secret societies, the supreme direction of
which is in our hands, and his wounded vanity and diseased curiosity
could not bear this degradation. The second is, that Count Albert never
thought or intended to resume his place and rank in the world. He could
not do so without giving rise to scandalous discussions in relation to
his identity, which he could not bear. He perhaps did not understand his
true duties in thus deciding. He would have been able to make a better
use of his fortune than his heirs. He thus deprived himself of one way
of doing good, which Providence had granted him. Enough, though, remain.
The voice of love was more powerful in inducing him to do this, than
conscience. He remembered that you did not love him, for the very reason
that he was rich and noble. He wished to abandon forever both name and
rank. He did so, and we consented. He will never pretend to be your
husband, for such he became from your pity and compassion. He will have
courage to renounce you. We have no greater power over him you call
Leverani, and over yourself, than persuasion. If you wish to fly
together, we cannot help it. We have neither dungeons nor constraint--we
neither have any corporeal penalties, though a faithful servitor,
somewhat credulous, may have told you so; but we hate all means of
tyranny: your lot is in your hands. Think again, poor Consuelo, and may
heaven direct you."
Consuelo had listened to this discourse in a profound state of stupor.
When the old man was done, she arose and said with energy:
"I need no thought. My choice is made. Albert is here! Lead me to him."
"Albert is not here. He could not be a witness of this strife. He is
even ignorant of what you now undergo."
"Dear Albert," said Consuelo lifting her hands to heaven, "I will
conquer." Then kneeling before the old man, she said, "Father, absolve
me, and aid me never to see this Leverani again! I do not wish; I will
not love hm!"
The old man placed his trembling hands above Consuelo's head. When he
removed them she could not arise. She had repressed her tears in her
bosom; and, crushed by a contest beyond her power, she was forced to use
the confessor's arm as she left the oratory.