The two robes, which the neophyte found in her room, were a brilliant
wedding dress, and a mourning garb with all the tokens of widowhood. She
hesitated for a short time. Her resolution as to the choice of a husband
was taken; but which of the two dresses would exactly exhibit her
intention? After a short time she put on the white dress, the veil and
flowers of a bride. The _tout ensemble_ was as elegant as possible.
Consuelo was soon ready; but when she looked at the terrible sentences
on the mirror, she could not smile as she used to. Her face was
exceedingly pale, and terror was in her heart. Let her make either
choice, she was aware she would be distressed and terrified. She felt
she must crush one heart, and her own felt in advance all the terror of
the wound she was about to inflict. She saw that her cheeks and lips
were as pale as her veil and wreath of orange flowers. She feared to
expose both Albert and Leverani to violent suffering, and felt tempted
to use rouge, but she at once abandoned the idea. She said, "If the
countenance deceives, my heart may also."
She knelt by her bedside, and hiding her face in the coverings, was
absorbed in meditation until the clock struck _midnight_. She arose at
once, and saw an Invisible, with a black mask, behind her. I do not know
what instinct made her think this was Marcus. She was not mistaken; yet
he did not make himself known to her, but said, in a gentle and mild
voice, "Madame, all is ready: will you put on this cloak and follow me?"
Consuelo accompanied the Invisible to the place where the rivulet lost
itself beneath the green arch of the park. There she found a gondola,
open and black, like those of Venice, and in the gigantic oarsman at the
bow she recognised Karl, who, when he saw her, made the sign of the
cross. This was his way of exhibiting the greatest imaginable joy.
"Can I speak to him?" asked Consuelo of her guide.
"You may speak a few words aloud."
"Dear Karl, my liberator and friend," said Consuelo, excited at seeing
a well-known face, after so long a seclusion amid mysterious beings,
"may I hope that nothing interferes with your pleasure at seeing me
again?"
"Nothing, signora," said Karl, calmly, "nothing but the memory of her
who no longer belongs to the world, yet whom I think I always see by
you. Courage and content, my dear mistress, become us. We are now just
as we were when we escaped from Spandau."
"This, too, brother, is a day of delivery. Oh! thanks to the vigor and
skill with which you are endowed, and which equal the prudence of your
speech and the power of your mind."
"This, madame," said he to Consuelo, "is like a flight. The chief
liberator, though, is not the same."
As he spoke Marcus gave her his hand, to assist her in reaching a bench,
covered with cushions. He felt that it trembled slightly at the
recollection of Leverani, and begged her to cover her face for but a few
moments. Consuelo did so, and the gondola, wafted on by the robust arm
of the deserter, slid silently over the dark and silent stream.
After an hour, the lapse of which was scarcely appreciated by the
pensive Consuelo, she heard the sound of instruments, and the boat
slackened its speed, without absolutely stopping, from time to time
touching the shore. The hood fell slowly off, and the neophyte thought
she passed from one dream to another, as she looked on the fairy scene
that opened before her. The boat passed along a flowery bank, strewn
with flowers and fresh grass. The water of the rivulet was collected in
a large basin, as it were, and reflected the colonnades of lights which
whirled around like fiery serpents, or burst into myriads of sparks on
the slow and gentle wake of the gondola. Charming music floated through
the air, and seemed to pass over perfumed roses and jessamines.
When the eyes of Consuelo had become accustomed to this sudden
clearness, she was able to fix them on the brilliant façade of a
palace, which arose at a short distance, and which reflected in the
mirror of the basin with magical splendor. In this elegant edifice,
which was painted on the starry sky, Consuelo saw through the open
windows men and women, clad in embroidery, diamonds, gold, and pearls,
moving slowly to and fro, and uniting with the general aspect of
entertainments of that day something effeminate and fantastic. This
princely festival, united with the effect of a warm night, which flung
its beauty and perfume even amid the splendid halls, filled Consuelo
with eager motion and a species of intoxication. She, a child of the
people, but a queen of patrician amusements, could not witness a
spectacle of this kind, after so long a period of solitude and sombre
reveries, without experiencing a kind of enthusiasm, a _necessity to
sing_, a strange agitation as she drew near the public. She then stood
up in the boat, which gradually approached the castle. Suddenly, excited
by that chorus of Handel, in which he sings "the glory of Jehovah, the
conqueror of Judea," she forgot all else, and joined that enthusiastic
chorus with her voice.
A new shock of the gondola, which, as it passed along the banks of the
stream, sometimes struck a branch or a tuft of grass, made her tremble.
Forced to take hold of the first hand which was stretched forth to
sustain her, she became aware that there was a fourth person in the
boat, a masked Invisible, who certainly was not there when she entered.
A vast gray cloak, with long folds, put on in a peculiar manner, and an
indescribable something in the mask, through which the features seemed
to speak--more than all, however, a pressure of the hand, apparently
unwilling to let go her own, told Consuelo that the man she loved, the
Chevalier Leverani, as he had appeared to her for the first time on the
lake around Spandau, stood by her. Then the music, the illumination, the
enchanted palace, the intoxication of the festival, and even the
approach of the solemn moment which was to decide her fate--all but the
present emotion was effaced from Consuelo's mind. Agitated and overcome
by a superhuman power, she sank quivering on the cushions by Leverani's
side. The other stranger, Marcus, was at the bow, and turned his back to
them. Fasting, the story of the Countess Wanda, the expectation of a
terrible _dénoûement_, the surprise of the festival, had crushed all
Consuelo's power. She was now aware of nothing but that the hand of
Leverani clasped her own, that his arm encircled her form, as if to keep
her from leaving, and of the divine ecstacy which the presence of one so
well beloved diffuses through the mind. Consuelo remained for a few
minutes in this situation, no longer seeing the sparkling palace, which
had again been lost in the night, feeling nothing but the burning breath
of her lover, and the beatings of her own heart.
"Madame," said Marcus, turning suddenly towards her, "do you not know
the air now sung? and will you not pause to hear that magnificent
tenor?"
"Whatsoever be the air, whatsoever be the voice," said Consuelo, "let us
pause or continue as you please."
The bark was almost at the palace. Forms might be seen in the embrasures
of the windows, and even those in the depths of the rooms. They seemed
no longer spectres floating in a dream, but real personages; nobles,
ladies, servants, artists, and many who were not unknown to Consuelo.
She made no effort of memory, however, to recall their names, nor the
palaces and the theatres where she had seen them. To her, the world had,
all at once, become insignificant as a magic lantern, and as completely
devoid of interest. The only being in the universe who seemed alive was
the one who furtively clasped her hand amid the folds of her dress.
"Do you not know that magnificent voice," said Marcus again, "which now
sings a Venetian air?" He was surprised at her total want of emotion. He
came near her, and sat by her side to ask the question.
"I beg your pardon," said Consuelo, who had made an effort to hear him;
"I did not understand you. I know the air and voice. I composed the
first long ago. It is not only bad, but badly sung."
"What, then, is the name of the singer to whom you are so severe? I
think him admirable."
"Ah! you have not lost it?" said Consuelo, in a low tone to Leverani.
This remark was called forth by his pressing against the palm of her
hand the little filagree cross, which, for the first time in her life,
she parted with during her escape from Spandau.
"You do not know the name of that singer?" said Marcus, carefully
watching Consuelo's countenance.
"Excuse me, sir," said she, rather impatiently, "his name is Anzoleto.
Ah! that is a bad G; he has lost that note."
"Do you not wish to see his face? You are perhaps mistaken. You can see
him distinctly from here: at least, I do. He is a very handsome man."
"Why should I see him?" said Consuelo, with some ill temper. "I am sure
he is unchanged."
Marcus took her hand gently, and Leverani seconding him, induced her to
stand up and look through the open window. Consuelo would possibly have
resisted either, but yielded to both. She glanced at the stage, the
handsome Venetian who was at that time the object of attraction to a
hundred female eyes, languishing, ardent, and burning for him. "He has
got fat," said Consuelo, sitting down and avoiding the fingers of
Leverani, who wished to regain possession of the little cross which she
had again recovered.
"Is that the only recollection you bestow on an old friend?" said
Marcus, who continued to watch her with a lynx's eyes.
"He is but a fellow artist," said Consuelo. "Such are not always
friends."
"Would you not like to speak to him? We may go into the palace and send
for him."
"If it be a _test_," said she, with some malice, for she began to
observe how determined Marcus was, "I am ready, and will obey you. If,
however, you wish to oblige me, let us have done with the affair."
"Must I stop here, brother?" said Karl, making a military salute with
his oar.
"On, brother, fast," said Marcus; and in a few moments the boat passed
over the basin, and lost itself in the undergrowth. The obscurity became
intense: the torch in the gondola alone shed its light on the foliage.
From time to time, amid the thicket, the sparkling of the lights in the
palace were visible. The sounds of the orchestra died away. The bark, as
it skirted along the bank, covered the oars with flowers, and the dark
cloak of Consuelo was covered with their perfumed petals. She began to
look into her own heart, and to combat the ineffable inffuence of
passion and right. She had withdrawn her hand from Leverani, and her
heart began to break as the veil or intoxication shrank before the light
of reason and reflection.
"Hear you, madam," said Marcus, "do you not hear the applause of the
audience? Yes; there are exclamations and clapping of hands. They are
delighted: Anzoleto has been very successful at the palace."
"They know nothing about it," said Consuelo, taking a magnolia flower
which Leverani had gathered in the passage, and thrown at her feet. She
clasped this flower convulsively in her hands and hid it in her bosom,
as the last relic of a passion about to be crushed or sanctified
forever.