At noon on the next day the red-throat came to tap with its bill and
claws at Consuelo's window. Just as she was about to open it, she
observed a black thread crossed over its yellow breast, and an
involuntary effort induced her to place her hand on the sash. She
withdrew it at once, however.
"Away," said she, "messenger of misfortune! away, poor innocent bearer
of letters which are guilty and criminal! I shall not, perhaps, have
courage to reply to a last farewell. Perhaps I should not suffer him to
know that I regret and mourn for him."
She took refuge in the music-room, to escape from the tempting bird,
which, used to a better reception hovered about, and angrily tapped at
the window-sill. She sat at her piano to drown the cries and reproaches
of her favorite, who had followed her to the window of the room, and she
felt something like the anguish of a mother when she will not hear the
cries and complaints of a penitent child. It was not because of the
red-throat that Consuelo now suffered. The note under the bird's wing
spoke most appealingly. This was the voice Which, to our romantic
recluse, seemed to lament at not being heard.
She did not yield. It is, however, in the nature of love to become angry
and return to the assault, becoming more imperious and triumphant after
every victory. Without metaphor may it be said, that to resist is to
supply him with new arms. About three o'clock Matteus came in with a
basket of flowers, which he brought his prisoner every day, (he loved
her kind and gentle deportment), and as usual she unbound them to
arrange them herself in the beautiful vase on the _console._ This was
one of her prison pleasures. On this occasion, however, she was less
awake to it, and attended to it mechanically, as if to kill time. In
untying a bundle of narcissi which was in the centre of the package of
perfumes, a letter without any direction fell out. In vain did she seek
to persuade herself that it came from the tribunal of the Invisibles.
Would Matteus in such a case have been its bearer? Unfortunately Matteus
was not by to give any explanations. It was necessary to ring for him.
Five minutes would be necessary ere he could return, and it might be
ten. Consuelo had exhibited too much courage towards the red-throat to
be able to resist the bouquet. The letter was being read when Matteus
returned. Consuelo had reached the postscript:--
"Do not question Matteus; for he is ignorant of the disobedience I make
him commit."
Matteus was merely asked to wind up the clock, which had stopped.
The Chevalier's letter was more passionate, more impetuous, than the
others. In its delirium it was even imperious. We will not copy it.
Love-letters are powerless, except to the persons to whom they are
directed. In themselves they are all alike. All who are in love find, in
the object of their attraction, an irresistible power and incomparable
novelty. No one fancies he is loved as another is, or in the same
manner. All fancy themselves most loved of any who live. Where this
strange blindness, this proud fascination, does not exist, there is no
passion. Passion had seized on the calm, quiet, and noble mind of
Consuelo.
The Chevalier's note disturbed all her ideas. He implored an interview,
and urged the necessity of using the few moments which remained. He
feigned to believe Consuelo had loved Albert, and that she yet loved
him. He pretended to be willing to submit to her decree, and in the
interim asked only a moment of pity, a tear of regret. This "_last_
appearance" of a great _artiste_ is always followed by many others.
Consuelo, though sad, was yet devoured by a secret joy, burning and
involuntary, at the idea of an interview. She felt her forehead blush
and her bosom palpitate, for she knew that in spite of herself she had
committed adultery. She saw that her resolution and her will did not
protect her from an inconceivable influence, and that if the Chevalier
resolved to break his vow, by speaking to her and showing his features,
as he seemed determined to do, she would not be able to prevent this
violation of the laws of the invisible tribunal. She had but one
refuge--to implore the tribunal's aid. But could she accuse and betray
Leverani? Would the worthy old man who had revealed Albert's existence,
and paternally received her confessions on the previous evening, receive
this also under the seal of confession. He would pity the Chevalier's
madness, and would condemn him only in the silence of his heart.
Consuelo wrote that she wished to see him at nine in the evening of that
day, and enjoined him on his honor, his repose and peace of mind to meet
her. This was the hour at which the stranger said he would come. But by
whom could she send this letter? Matteus would not go a foot out of the
enclosure before midnight; such were his orders, he had been severely
reprimanded for not having always punctually obeyed his orders in
relation to the prisoner. Henceforth he would be inflexible.
The hour drew near, and Consuelo, though she sought in every way to
avoid the fatal test, had not thought of any means of resisting it.
Compulsory female virtue will ever be but a mere name unless half of the
stain of its violation rests on the man! Every plan of defence becomes a
mere subterfuge: every immolation of personal happiness fails, when
opposed to the fear of reducing the object of affection to despair.
Consuelo resolved on one resource, a suggestion of the heroism and
weakness which divided her heart. She began to look for the mysterious
opening of the cavern which was in the house, resolving to hurry through
it, and at any risk to present herself before the Invisibles. She had
fancied, gratuitously enough, that their place of meeting was accessible
when she had once discovered the mouth of the passage, and that they met
every night at the same place. She was not aware that on that day they
were all absent, and that Leverani alone had returned, after having
pretended to accompany them on their mysterious excursion.
All her efforts to discover the secret door or trap were useless. She
had not now as at Spandau, the _sang froid_, the perseverance necessary
to discover the smallest fissure in the wall, the least protruding
stone. Her hands trembled as she examined the paneling and hangings, and
her sight became disturbed. Every moment she seemed to hear the sound of
the step of the Chevalier on the garden walks, or on the marble portico.
All at once, she fancied she heard them beneath her, as if they ascended
some secret stairway or approached to some invisible door, or as if,
like familiar spirits, they were about to rush through the wall before
her. She let her light fall, and fled into the garden. The rivulet
caused her to cease her flight. She listened to footsteps, which she
fancied she heard behind her. She then became somewhat amazed, and got
into the boat which the gardener had for bringing sand and turf from the
forest. Consuelo fancied that when she loosed it she would gain the
opposite bank; but the current was very rapid, and passed out of the
enclosure through a grated arch. Borne off by the current, the boat in a
few moments would have knocked against the grating. To avoid the shock,
she put forth her hands--for a native of Venice and a child of its
people could not be at any difficulty in relation to such a manœuvre.
By a strange chance, however, the grating yielded to her hands, and
swang open, in obedience to the impulse the boat received from the
current. "Alas!" thought Consuelo, "they never shut this passage,
perhaps: I am but a prisoner on parole, and yet I fly and violate my
word. I do so, however, only to seek protection from my hosts, not to
abandon and betray them!"
She sprang on shore at a turn of the current whither the boat had been
driven, and rushed into a thick hedge. Consuelo could not proceed
rapidly through the undergrowth. The alley wound about, and the fugitive
every moment knocked against the trees, and frequently fell on the turf.
Yet she felt a return of hope to her soul: she thought it impossible for
Leverani to discover her.
After having wandered a long time at hazard, she found herself at the
foot of a hill, strewn with rocks, the varied outline of which was
painted on a grey and clouded sky. A storm-wind of some power, had
arisen, and the rain began to fall. Consuelo, not daring to return, for
fear that Leverani had followed, and might look for her on the banks of
the stream, ventured on the rude hill-side path. She thought that when
she had reached the top, she would discover the lights of the castle and
ascertain her position. When she had arrived, however, in the darkness,
the lightning, which began to illumine the heavens, showed her the ruin
of a vast building, which seemed the imposing and melancholy monument of
another age.
The rain forced Consuelo to seek shelter, and with difficulty she found
it. The towers were roofless, and flocks of ger-falcons and tiercelets
were terrified at her approach, and uttered a sharp and acute cry, which
sounded like that of the spirits of evil inhabiting some old ruin.
Amid the stones and ivy, Consuelo went through the chapel, which, by the
lightning, exhibited the outline of its dislocated mouldings, and went
into the court-yard which was overgrown with short smooth grass. She
avoided by chance a deep well, the presence of which on the surface was
only indicated by superb capillary plants, and a rose-tree which were in
undisturbed possession of the interior. The mass of ruined buildings
around this courtyard presented the strangest aspect. At every flash,
the eye could scarcely take in these pale and downcast spectres; all
these incoherent forms of ruin, vast stacks of chimneys, the summits of
which were blackened by fires long extinct forever, and springing from
amid walls which were bare and terribly high; broken stairways, showing
their helices, into the void, as if to enable witches to go to their
aerial dance; whole trees installed and in possession of rooms, on the
walls of which frescoes were yet visible; stone benches in the deep
window recesses, desertedness within and without these mysterious
retreats, refuges of lovers in times of peace and the sentinels' station
during war; finally, loop-holes, festooned with coquettish garlands,
isolated spires, piercing the skies like obelisks, and doors completely
crushed by the falling ruins. It was a fearful and poetical spot, and
Consuelo felt herself under the influence of a kind of terror, as if her
presence had profaned a space reserved for the funeral conferences and
silent reveries of the dead. In a calm night, and when less agitated,
she would not, perhaps, have so pitied the rigor of time and the fates
which so violently destroy palace and fortress, leaving their ruins on
the grass by the side of those of the hut. The sadness which is inspired
by the ruins of these formidable abodes rise not identical in the
imagination of the artist and the patrician. At this moment of terror
and fear, however, and on this stormy night, Consuelo, unsustained by
the enthusiasm which had impelled her in more serious undertakings, felt
herself again become a child of the people, and trembled at the idea of
seeing again appear the phantoms of night, especially the old lords, the
stern occupants of them, while alive, and, after death, their
threatening and menacing possessors. The thunder lifted up its voice;
the wind made the bricks crumble and the cement fall from the dismantled
pile, while the long branches of the ivy twined like serpents around the
embrasures of the towers. Consuelo, who was looking for a shelter from
the fierce tempest, went beneath the vault of a stairway which seemed in
better preservation than the others. It was that of a vast feudal tower,
the most ancient and solid of the edifice. After about twenty steps, she
came to a broad octagonal hall which occupied all the interior of the
tower. The opposite stairway having been made, as is the case with all
constructions of this kind, in the thickness (eighteen or twenty feet)
of the wall. The vault of this hall was like the interior of a hive.
There were now neither doors nor windows, but the openings were so
narrow that the wind easily lost its power in passing through them.
Consuelo resolved to wait in this place until the tempest was over, and
approaching a window, stood for more than an hour, contemplating the
grand spectacle of a sky in flames, and listening to the terrible voices
of the storm.
The wind at last lulled, the clouds became dissipated, and Consuelo
thought she would go. On her return, however, she was amazed to find a
more permanent light than that of day occupy the interior of the room.
This clearness, after a season of, as it were, tremulous light,
increased and filled the vault, and a light crackling sound was heard in
the hearth. Consuelo looked and saw beneath the half-arch of this old
hall, an enormous recess open before her, and a wood-fire which seemed
to have kindled itself and burned out alone. She approached, and saw
half-burned branches and all that indicated a fire having been kept up,
and abandoned without precaution.
Terrified at this circumstance, which informed her of the presence of a
host, Consuelo, who saw no trace of furniture here, hurried towards the
stairway, and was about to descend, when she heard voices and the sound
of feet on the pavement below. Her fantastic terrors then became real
apprehensions. This damp and devastated tower could only be inhabited by
some gamekeeper, perhaps as savage as his abode--it may be, drunk and
brutal--and probably by no means so honest and respectful as the good
Matteus. The steps rapidly approached, and Consuelo hurried up the
stairway, to avoid being met by those who might come. After having gone
about twenty steps, she found herself on the second floor, from the one
where they would be apt to come, since, being roofless, it was
uninhabitable. Fortunately the rain had ceased, and she saw a few stars
through the climbing shrubs, which had covered the top of the tower,
about ten _toises_ above her head. A ray of light from below soon began
to trace shadows on the walls of the ruin, and Consuelo, approaching
stealthily, looked through a crevice into the room she had just left.
Two men were in the hall: one walking and stamping his feet to warm
them, and the other leaning down in the fireplace, attempting to
rekindle the fire which began to burn. At first, she did not see that
their apparel betokened exalted rank; but the light of the fire being
revived, he who heaped it up with the point of his sword, got up to lean
the weapon against a salient stone. Consuelo saw long black hair, at the
appearance of which she trembled, and a brow which had nearly wrung a
cry of terror and tenderness from her. He spoke, and she had no doubt
the person she saw was Albert of Rudolstadt.
"Draw near, my friend," said he to his companion, "and warm yourself at
the only fireplace of this old castle. A bad state of things, Von
Trenck; but you have, in your wanderings, found matter worse."
"Sometimes," answered the lover of the Princess Amelia, "I have found
nothing at all. This place is really more comfortable than it seems, and
I will be glad to make more of it. Ah! count, you then come sometimes to
muse in these ruins and _watch your arms_[13] in this haunted tower."
"I often come for better reasons. I cannot now tell you why, but will
hereafter."
"I can guess then. From the top of this tower you can look into a
certain park and over a certain pavilion."
"No, Trenck; the house you speak of is behind those woods and that hill,
and cannot be seen from here."
"But you can go thither from this place in a few moments, and can again
take refuge here if troublesome people watch you. Well, now, acknowledge
that just as I met you in the room, you were----"
"I can acknowledge nothing, dear Trenck, and you promised not to
question me."
"True, I should think of nothing except of rejoicing at having found you
in this immense park, or rather forest, where I had lost my way, and but
for you must have thrown myself into some picturesque ravine, or been
drowned in some limpid stream. Are we far from the castle?"
"More than a quarter of a league."
"The old castle does not please me as well as the new one, I confess,
and can see well enough why they yield it up to the bats. I am glad,
however, I find myself alone with you at such a mournful time and hour.
It reminds me of our first meeting amid the ruins of an abbey in
Silesia--my initiation--the oaths I took with my hands in yours, for
then you were my judge, my examiner, my master, but now are my brother
and my friend. Dear Albert! what strange and miserable vicissitudes have
passed over our heads since that day! Both dead to our families, our
countries, our loves, perhaps. What will become of us? and what
henceforth will be our life among men?"
"Yours may yet be surrounded by _éclat_ and intoxication. The dominions
of the tyrant who hates you, thank God, do not cover all the soil of
Europe."
"But my mistress, Albert? Will she be always faithful to me--eternally
but uselessly faithful?"
"You should not desire it, my friend; but it is certain that her passion
will be durable as her sorrow."
"Speak to me of her, Albert, you are more blest than myself, for you are
able to see and hear her."
"I can do so no more, dear Trenck. Do not deceive yourself in that
matter. The fantastic name and strange character of the person called
Trismegistus, with whom I was confounded, and which protected me so long
in my brief and mysterious visits to Berlin, have lost their _prestige_;
my friends will be discreet, and my dupes (for to aid our cause, and
your love, it became necessary to make such) will be more shrewd in
future. Frederick scented a conspiracy, and I cannot return to Prussia.
My efforts will be paralysed by his distrust, and the prison of Spandau
will never open again to let me pass."
"Poor Albert! You must have suffered as much in prison as I did. Perhaps
more?"
"No, I was near her, and heard her voice. I toiled for her delivery. I
regret neither that I endured the horror of a dungeon, nor that I
despaired for her life. If I have suffered on my own account, I did not
perceive it. She has escaped, and will be happy."
"By your means, Albert! Tell me that she will be happy with and through
you only, or I esteem her no more. I withdraw from her my respect and my
admiration."
"Do not speak thus, Trenck. To do so is to outrage nature, love, and
heaven. Our wives are as free of obligation to us as our mistresses. To
bind them in the chains of duty agreeable only to our own feelings, is a
crime and a profanation."
"I know it; and without arrogating to myself your lofty feelings, I am
aware, had Amelia withdrawn her promise instead of renewing it, I feel I
would not on that account cease to love and thank her for the days of
happiness she has conferred on me; but it is permitted to me to be more
anxious on your account than on my own, and to hate all who do not love
you. You smile, Albert, for you do not comprehend my love, nor do I
understand your courage. If it be true that she you love has become a
victim (before her weeds should have been laid aside) of one of _our
brothers_, were he the most deserving of them and the most fascinating
man in the world, I could never pardon her. If you can do so, you are
more than mortal."
"Trenck, Trenck, you know not what you say. You do not understand, and I
cannot explain. Do not judge that admirable woman yet. By-and-bye, you
will know her."
"Why not justify her to my mind? Why this mystery? We are alone here.
Your confessions will not compromise her, and I am aware of no oath
which binds you to hide from me things that we all suspect. She loves
you not? What is her excuse?"
"She never loved me."
"That is her offence. She did not understand you."
"She could not, and I was unable to reveal myself to her. Besides, I was
sick and mad. No one loves a madman. They are to be pitied and feared."
"Albert, you were never a madman. I never saw you crazed. The wisdom and
power of your mind dazzled me."
"You saw me firm and self-possessed while in action. You never saw me in
the agony of repose, or in the tortures of discouragement."
"You know, then, what it is to feel so. I did not think so."
"The reason is, you do not see all the dangers, obstacles, and vices of
our enterprise. You have never sounded the abyss into which I plunged
all my soul, and cast all my existence. You have looked at its chivalric
and generous side; you have seen but easy looks and smiling hopes."
"The reason, count, is that I am less great, less enthusiastic than
yourself. You drained the cup of zeal to the very dregs; and when its
bitterness suffocated you, suspicions of man and heaven arose."
"Yes; and I have suffered cruelly on that account."
"And do you doubt yet--do you still suffer?"
"Now I hope, believe, and act. I am strong and happy. Do you not see joy
enkindle my brow? Do you not see my very heart is intoxicated?"
"Yet you have been betrayed by your mistress? What do I say? by your
wife."
"She was never either one or the other. She owes me no duty. God has
vouchsafed her his love--the most celestial of his boons--as her reward
for having pitied me for a moment on my death-bed. Shall I still hold
her to a promise wrested from her generous compassion and sublime
charity? Should I do so, I would then say, 'Woman, I am your master. You
are mine by law, by your own imprudence and error. You shall tolerate my
embraces, because once on our parting day you kissed my icy brow. You
shall place your hand in mine forever, walk my way, bear my yoke, crush
the young love in your bosom, trample down irrepressible desires, and
consume in sorrow, in my profane arms, on my selfish and cowardly
heart.' Oh! Trenck, think you I could be happy did I act thus? Would not
my life be a bitterer torment than her own? The suffering of the slave
would be the master's curse. Great God! what being is so degraded, so
brutal, as to become proud and intoxicated with a love which is not
mutual, with a fidelity against which the heart of the victim revolts? I
thank heaven that such I am not and cannot be. I was going this evening
to see Consuelo, and tell her all this, and restore her to liberty. I
did not meet her in the garden where she usually walks, and then this
storm came and stripped me of the hope of seeing her. I did not wish to
visit her rooms. I would then have used my rights as a husband. The
quivering of her terror, the very pallor of her despair, would have done
me an injury I cannot bear."
"And have you not also met in the dark Leverani's black mask?"
"Who is Leverani?"
"Are you ignorant of your master's name?"
"Leverani is an assumed name. Do you not know this man, my happy rival?"
"No; but you ask this in a strange manner. Albert, I think I understand
you. You pardon your unfortunate wife. You abandon her, as you should
do. You should, however, chastise her base seducer."
"Are you sure he is base?"
"What! the man to whom the care of her rescue, and the keeping of her
person during a long and dangerous journey was confided--the man who
should protect and respect her, who should not speak to her or show her
his face--a man invested with the power and blind confidence of the
Invisibles--your brother in arms and oath, as I am? Ah! had that woman
been confided to me, I would not have dreamed of the base treachery of
winning her love."
"Once more, Trenck, you know not what you say. Only three of us know
this Leverani and his crime. In a few days you will cease to blame this
happy mortal, to whom God in his goodness has vouchsafed Consuelo's
love."
"Strange and sublime man! do you not hate him?"
"I cannot do so."
"You will not interfere with his happiness?"
"I toil ardently to secure it, and there is nothing strange or sublime
in this. You will ere long smile at the praises you give me."
"What! do you not even suffer?"
"I am the happiest of men."
"Then you either love her little or love her much. Such heroism is not
in human nature. It is almost monstrous, and I cannot admire what I
cannot comprehend. Listen, count. You laugh at me and I am very simple.
I have guessed all, though. You love another woman, and thank Providence
for having delivered you from all obligation to Consuelo, by making her
unfaithful."
"I must than, open my heart, baron, to you, for you force me to do so.
Listen: this is my story--a whole romance. But it is cold here, and this
brush fire is insufficient to warm these old walls, which, I am afraid,
remind you of those of Glatz. It has become clear, and we can find our
way to the castle. Since you go at dawn, I will not detain you up
longer. As we walk I will tell you a strange story."
The two friends resumed their hats, after having shaken off the rain.
Trampling on the brands, to put them out, they left the tower arm in
arm. Their voices soon became lost in the distance, and the echoes of
the old mansion soon ceased to repeat the feeble noise of their steps on
the damp grass of the court.
[Footnote 13: "Faire la veillée des armes." The watch of a knight's
armor on the night before he was dubbed.]