Chapter XIV

Consuelo was taken to her house in the same carriage which had brought her to the palace. Two sentinels were placed at each door of her house; and the Baron of Buddenbrock, watch in hand, imitating the rigid punctuality of his master, gave her one hour to make her preparations, telling her at the same time that her packages would be examined by the officers of the fortress to which she was about to be sent. When she entered her room, all was in the most picturesque disorder. During her conference with the king, officers of the secret police had come, in obedience to order, to open every lock and take possession of all her papers. Consuelo had except her music, nothing of consequence, and was much distressed in thinking that perhaps she would never see her favorite authors again--and they were the only fortune she had amassed. She cared much less for various jewels given her by some of the most exalted personages of Vienna and Berlin, as a kind of pay for her services at their concerts. They were taken from her under the pretence that perhaps the rings were poisoned or had seditious emblems. The king never heard of them, nor did Consuelo ever see them. The subordinate officers of Frederick had no scruples in relation to such peculations, for they were badly paid, and knew the king would rather shut his eyes to their conduct than increase their pay.

Consuelo looked first for her crucifix, and thinking that they had neglected it on account of its small value, took it down and put it in her pocket. She saw the chaplet of roses lying withered on the floor. When she took it up, she perceived with terror that the band of parchment which contained the mysterious encouragement was not there.

This was the only proof possible of her complicity in the pretended conspiracy; but to what commentaries might this be the index? While looking anxiously around for it, she put her hand in her pocket and found it there, where she had placed it mechanically when Buddenbrock had called her an hour before.

Made at ease in relation to this, and being well aware that nothing which could compromise her would be found among her papers, she hastened to collect all she might need during an absence the duration of which she knew would be altogether indefinite. She had no one to help her, her servant having been arrested as a witness; and amid her dresses which had been pulled out of the drawers and thrown at random about the room, she had great difficulty in finding what she needed. Suddenly she heard some sonorous object fall on the floor. It was a large nail which was passed through a letter.

The style was laconic. "Do you wish to escape? Show yourself at the window, and in ten minutes you will be in safety."

The first idea of Consuelo was to go to the window. She paused, however, for she fancied that her flight, in case she effected it, would be considered as proof of guilt, and that this would be considered a confession that she had accomplices.

"Princess Amelia!" thought she, "if it be true that you have betrayed me, so will I not you! I will discharge my debt to Trenck. He saved my life; and if it be necessary, I will lose mine for him!"

Revived by this generous idea, she completed her preparations with much presence of mind, and was ready when Buddenbrock came for her to go. On this occasion she thought him more hypocritical and disagreeable than ever. Being both servile and arrogant, Buddenbrock was jealous of his master's sympathies, just as old dogs snap at all who visit the house. He had been mortified at the lesson the king had given him when he received orders to make Consuelo suffer from her situation, and asked for nothing better than to be avenged.

"I am much grieved, signora," said he, "at having to execute such rigorous orders. For a long time nothing like it has been witnessed in Berlin. No; it has not occurred since the time of Frederick William, the august father of the present king. It was a cruel example of the severity of the law, and of the power of our princes. I will remember it as long as I live. Then neither age nor sex were respected when an error was to be punished. I remember a very pretty girl, well-born and amiable, who, for having received the visit of an august person, contrary to the king's wish, was flogged by an executioner, and driven from the city."

"I know that story, sir," said Consuelo, with mingled fear and indignation. "The young girl was prudent and pure. Her only offence was, that she used to practise music with the present king, then prince royal. Has the king suffered so little from the catastrophes to which he has subjected others, that he now dares attempt to frighten me by so infamous a threat?"

"I think not, signora. His majesty does nothing but what is great and just, and you must know whether or not your innocence shelters you from his anger. I would think so if I could, but just now I saw the king more irritated than he ever was. He said that he was wrong in attempting to reign by mildness, and that in his father's days no woman had dared to act as you had. From some other words of his majesty, I am afraid some degrading punishment--I cannot conjecture what--awaits you. But my duty is painful; we are now at the gates of the city, and if I find there that the king has given any orders contrary to those I received to conduct you to Spandau, I will withdraw, my rank not permitting me to be present."

Buddenbrock, seeing the effect he had produced, and that Consuelo was almost ready to faint, stopped. She, at that moment, almost regretted her devotion, and could not in her heart refrain from appealing to her unknown protectors. But as she looked with a haggard eye at Buddenbrock, she saw in his face the hesitating expression of falsehood, and began to grow calm. Her heart yet beat as if it would burst her breast, when a police officer presented himself at the gate, to exchange a few words with Buddenbrock. During this conversation, one of the grenadiers who had come on horseback with the carriage, came to the other door, and said, in a low tone, "Be calm, signorina, blood will be shed rather than that you should be injured." In her trouble, Consuelo did not distinguish the features of her unknown friend, who at once withdrew. The carriage proceeded at a gallop towards the fortress, and, in about an hour, Porporina was incarcerated in due form, or rather with the prevailing want of form, in the castle of Spandau.

This citadel, at that time considered impregnable, is situated in the bay formed by the confluence of the Havel and the Spree. The day had become dark and gloomy, and Consuelo having completed the sacrifice, experienced that apathetic exhaustion which follows energy and enthusiasm. She therefore suffered herself to be taken to the gloomy abode intended for her, without even looking around. She was exhausted; and though it was noon only, threw herself, dressed as she was, on the bed, and went fast asleep. In addition to the fatigue, she experienced, was added that kind of delicious security, the fruits of which a good conscience always receives. Though the bed was hard, she slept profoundly as possible.

She had been for some time in a kind of half-slumber, when she heard midnight struck by the castle clock. The impression of sound is so keen to musical ears that she was awakened at once. When she left her bed, she understood that she was in prison, and she was forced to pass the whole night in thought, as she had slept all day. She was surprised at not suffering with cold, and was especially pleased at not feeling that physical inconvenience which paralyses thought. The wind bellowed outside in the most mournful manner, the rain beat on the window, and Consuelo could see through the narrow window nothing but the iron grating painted on the dark ground of a starless sky.

The poor captive passed the first hour of this new and unknown punishment, with her mind perfectly lucid, and with thoughts full of logic, reason, and philosophy. Gradually, however, this tension fatigued her brain, and the night became lugubrious. Her positive reflections changed into vague and strange reveries. Fantastic images, painful memories, terrible apprehensions assailed her, and she found herself in a state neither of sleeping nor watching, yet where all her ideas assumed some form and seemed to float amid the darkness of her cell. Sometimes she fancied herself on the stage, and mentally sang a part that fatigued her, and the representation of which haunted her, without her being able to get rid of it: sometimes she saw herself in the hands of the executioner, with bare shoulders, amid a stupid and curious crowd, lacerated by the rod, while the king, with angry air, looked down from the balcony, and Anzoleto stood laughing in one corner. At last, she felt a kind of torpor, and saw nothing but the spectre of Albert in a cenotaph, making vain efforts to rise and come to her aid. Then, this image was effaced, and she fancied herself asleep in the grotto of Schreckenstein, while the sublime and sad notes of the violin uttered in the depths of the cavern Albert's eloquent and lacerating prayer. Consuelo, in fact, was but half asleep, and the sound of the instrument flattered her ear, and restored quiet to her soul. The phrases, however, were so united, though weakened by distance, and the modulations were so distinct, that she really fancied she heard them, and was not astonished at the fact. It seemed that this fantastic performance lasted more than an hour, and that it lost in the air its insensible gradations. Consuelo then sunk again to sleep and day began to dawn when she opened her eyes.

The first care she had was to look around her room, which she had not even looked at on the previous evening, so absorbed was she by the sensations of physical life. She was in a cell, perfectly naked, but clean, and warmed by a brick stove, which was lighted on the outside, and which shed no light in the room, though it maintained an equable temperature. One single arched window lighted the room, which yet was not too dark: the walls were white-washed and rather high.

Three knocks were heard at the door, and the keeper said aloud, "_Prisoner, number three_, get up and dress: in a quarter of an hour your room will be visited."

Consuelo hastened to obey, and to remake her bed before the return of the keeper, who in a very respectful manner brought her bread and water for the day. He had the air and bearing of an old major-domo, and placed the frugal prison-allowance on the table, with as much care and propriety as if it had been the most carefully prepared repast.

Consuelo looked at this man, who was old, and whose fine and gentle physiognomy at first had nothing repulsive in it. He had been selected to wait on the women, on account of his manners, his good behavior, and his discretion, beyond all trial. His name was Swartz, and he informed Consuelo of the fact.

"I live below you," said he, "and if you be sick call to me through the window."

"Have you not a wife?" said Consuelo.

"Certainly," said he, "and if you really need her, she will wait on you. It is, however, forbidden to have anything to say with female prisoners, except in special cases--the surgeon must say when. I have also a son who will share with me the honor of serving you."

"I have no need of so many servants, and if you please, Swartz, I will be satisfied with your wife and yourself."

"I know that ladies are satisfied with my age and appearance. You need not fear my son more than you do me, for he is a lad full of piety, gentleness, and firmness."

"You will not require that last quality with me. I came hither almost voluntarily, and have no wish to escape. As long as I am served decently and properly, as people seem disposed, I will submit to the prison rules, rigorous as they may be."

As she spoke thus, Consuelo, who had eaten nothing during the past twenty-four hours, and who had suffered all night with hunger, began to break the loaf and to eat it with a good appetite.

She then observed that her resignation made an impression on the old keeper, and both amazed and annoyed him.

"Your ladyship, then, has no aversion to this coarse food?" said he, awkwardly.

"I will not deny, that for the sake of my health in future, I wish for something more substantial: if, however, I must be satisfied with this, I will not be greatly put out."

"Yet you are used to live well? You have a good table at home, I suppose?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Then," said Swartz, "why do you not have a comfortable one prepared for you here?"

"Is that permitted?"

"Certainly," said Swartz, whose eyes glittered at the idea of this business, for he had feared to find a person too poor or too sober to ask it. "If your ladyship has been shrewd enough to conceal any money on your person, I am not prohibited from furnishing food to you. My wife is a very good cook, and we have a very comfortable table service."

"That is very kind," said Consuelo, who discovered Swartz' cupidity with more disgust than satisfaction. "The question, however, is to know if I really have money. They searched me when I came hither, and I know they left me a crucifix, to which I attached much interest, but I cannot say whether they have left me my purse."

"Has not your ladyship observed it?"

"No; does that surprise you?"

"But your ladyship certainly knows what was in the purse."

"Nearly." As she spoke, Consuelo examined her pockets, but did not find a farthing. She said, in a gay tone, "They have left me nothing that I can find: I must be satisfied with prison fare. Do not be mistaken as to that fact."

"Well, madame," said Swartz, not without a visible effort over himself, "I will show you that my family is honest. Your purse is in my pocket; here it is," and he showed Porporina her purse, which he immediately put in his pocket.

"Much good may it do you," said Porporina, amazed at his impudence.

"Wait awhile," said the avaricious keeper. "My wife searched you. She was ordered to let the prisoners have no money, lest they should use it to corrupt their keepers. When the latter are incorruptible, the precaution is useless. She thought, therefore, her duty did not require her to give your money to the major. As, however, she must obey the letter of the order, your purse cannot be returned directly to your hands."

"Keep it, then," said Consuelo, "since such is your pleasure."

"To be sure I will, and you will thank me for doing so. I am the depository of your money, and will use it for your wants. I will bring you such dishes as you wish; I will keep your stove hot, and even furnish you with a better bed and bed-linen. I will keep a regular account, and pay myself discreetly from your fund."

"So be it," said Consuelo. "I see one can make terms with heaven, and I appreciate the honesty of Herr Swartz as I should. When this sum, which is not large, shall be exhausted, will you not furnish me with the means of procuring more?"

"I do not say so. That would be to violate my duty, a thing I will never do; but your ladyship will never suffer, if you will tell me who at Berlin or elsewhere is the depository of your funds. I will send my accounts to that person, in order that they may be regularly paid. My orders do not forbid that."

"Very well: you have contrived a way to correct that order, which is a very agreeable thing, as it permits you to treat us well, and prohibits us from having anything to say about it. When my ducats are gone, I will contrive to satisfy you. First of all, bring me some chocolate; give me for dinner a chicken and vegetables; get some books for me during the day, and at night give me a light."

"The chocolate your ladyship will have in five minutes; dinner will be prepared at once. I will give you also some good soup, little delicacies which ladies do not disdain, and coffee, which is very salutary to combat the damp air of our residence. The books and light are inadmissible: I would be dismissed at once, and my conscience does not permit me to violate my orders."

"But, other than prison food is equally prohibited."

"Not so. We are permitted to treat ladies, and especially your ladyship, humanely, in all that relates to health and comfort."

"_Ennui_ is equally injurious to the health."

"Your ladyship is mistaken. Good food and mental repose make all here fat. I might mention a lady who came hither as thin as you, and who, after being a prisoner twenty years, was discharged, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds."

"Thank you, sir, I do not wish such immense _embonpoint._ I hope you will not refuse me books and a light."

"I humbly ask your ladyship's pardon; but I cannot violate my duty. Besides, your ladyship will not suffer from _ennui_; you will have a piano and music here."

"Indeed! And to whom will I be indebted for this consolation? To you?"

"No, signora: to his majesty: and I have an order from the governor to have the above-mentioned articles placed in your room."

Consuelo was delighted at being allowed the means of _making music_, and asked nothing more. She took her chocolate gaily, while Swartz put her furniture in order, that is to say, a miserable bed, two straw chairs, and a pine table. "Your ladyship will need a _commode_," said he, with the kind air assumed by persons who wish to overpower others with care and attention, in exchange for their money: "then a better bed, a carpet, a chest of drawers, an arm-chair, and a toilette."

"I will take the commode and toilette," said Consuelo, who sought to take care of her means. "The rest I will not ask you for. I am not particular, and beg you to give me only what I ask for."

Swartz shook his head with astonishment, almost with contempt; he did not reply, however, and when he had rejoined his worthy wife, said:

"She is not a bad person, I mean the new prisoner, but she is poor; we will not make much from her."

"How much do you wish her to spend?" said the wife, shrugging her shoulders. "She is not a great lady, but an actress, they tell me."

"An actress!" said Swartz. "Well, I am glad for our son Gotlieb's sake."

"Fie on you," said Vrau Swartz, with a frown. "Do you wish to make him a rope-dancer?"

"You do not understand, wife. He will be a preacher. I will never give it up, for he is of the wood of which they are made, and has studied. As he must preach, and as he has as yet shown no great eloquence, this actress will give him lessons in declamation."

"That is not a bad idea, if she will not charge her lessons against our bills."

"Be easy, then; she has no sense," said Swartz, snickering and rubbing his hands.