Chapter XVII

Von Poelnitz hated Porporina sufficiently to take this opportunity to avenge himself. He, however, did not, his conduct being cowardly in the extreme; he had not sufficient strength of mind to injure any but those who yielded to him. As soon as he was alone, he became timid, and one might say, experienced an involuntary respect for those whom he could not deceive. He had been even known to detach himself from those who flattered his vices, and to follow, like a whipped hound, those who trampled on him. Was this a feeling of weakness, or the memory of a less degraded youth? It would be pleasant to think, that in the most degraded souls, something appeals to our better instincts, which yet remain, though oppressed and existing in suffering and remorse alone. Von Poelnitz had long attached himself to Prince Henry, and feigning to participate in his sorrows, had induced him to complain of the king's bad treatment: these conversations he repeated to Frederick, filling them with venom, as a means of increasing the anger of the latter. Poelnitz did this dirty work for the very pleasure of mischief; for, in fact he did not hate the prince, being incapable of the passion. He hated no one but the king, who dishonored him every day, without making him rich. Poelnitz loved trickery for its own sake. To deceive, was a flattering triumph in his eyes. He felt, besides, a real pleasure in speaking and causing others to speak ill of the king, and when he repeated all these slanders to the king, he had an interval of pleasure at being able to play his master the same trick, by concealing the pleasure he took in laughing at him, betraying and revealing his vicious and ridiculous points to his enemies. Both parties, therefore, he considered his dupes, and this life of intrigue in which he fomented hatred, without knowing precisely why, had a secret attraction.

The consequence, however, was, that Henry discovered, that as often as he suffered his ill-humor to appear before the complaisant baron, in the course of a few hours he found the king more offended and outrageous than ever. If he complained before Von Poelnitz of having been twenty-four hours in arrest, on the next day he had twice the confinement awarded him. This prince, as frank as brave, as confiding as Frederick was suspicious, finally arrived at a correct appreciation of the character of the miserable baron. Instead of managing him prudently, he had overpowered him with indignation. Since that time, Poelnitz humbled himself to the ground and never had offended him. He seemed, even, in the depth of his heart, to love him as much as he was capable of loving any one. He warmed with admiration when he spoke of him, and these testimonials of respect appeared so strange that all were astonished at such an incomprehensible whim in such a man.

The fact is, Von Poelnitz, finding the prince more generous and a thousand times more tolerant than Frederick, would have preferred him as a master; having a vague presentiment or rather a guess, as the king had, that a mysterious conspiracy was spun around the prince, the threads of which he wished to hold, so that he might know whether success was so certain that he might join it. It was then for his own interests that he sought to ingratiate himself with Consuelo, and ascertain its secrets. Had she revealed the little she knew, he would not have disclosed it to the king, unless Frederick had given him a great deal of money. Frederick was too economical, however, to purchase the services of great scoundrels.

Poelnitz had ascertained something of this mystery from the Count de Saint Germain. He had spoken so positively, so boldly of the king, that this skillful adventurer had not sufficiently distrusted him. Let us say, _en passant_, that in this adventurer's character there was something of enthusiasm and folly: that though he was a charlatan and even Jesuitical in many respects, there was a foundation for the entire man, a fanatical conviction which presented singular contrasts, and induced him to perpetrate many errors.

In conveying Consuelo back to the fortress, having somewhat familiarized himself with the contempt she had exhibited, he conducted himself with great _naïveté_ towards her. He confessed to her, voluntarily, that he was ignorant of everything, that all he had said about the plans of the prince, in relation to foreign powers, was but a gratuitous commentary on the whimsical conduct and secret association of the prince and his sister with suspicious characters.

"This commentary does no honor to your lordship's sincerity," said Consuelo, "and, perhaps, should not be boasted of."

"The commentary is not my own," said Poelnitz, quietly. "It is conceived by a royal master, with a diseased and unhealthy brain, if there ever was one, whenever any suspicion takes possession of him. To consider suppositions as certainties, is a mode of conduct so firmly established by the custom of courts and diplomatists, that it is pretence in you to scandalise it. I, too, learned it from kings. They are the persons who have educated me, and my vices come from the father and the son, the two Prussian monarchs I have the honor to have served. To state falsehood, to discover the truth--Frederick never acts otherwise, and is considered a great man. See what it is to be popular. Yet I am treated as a criminal because I have his errors; what a prejudice!"

Von Poelnitz insinuatingly endeavored, as well as he could, to ascertain from Consuelo what had passed between herself, the abbess, Von Trenek, the adventurers Cagliostro, Trismegistus, Saint Germain, and a number of very important persons, who, it was said, were involved in the affair. He told her, naïvely enough, that if the matter had any consistency, he would not hesitate to join in it. Consuelo at last saw that he spoke sincerely. As she knew nothing, however, there was no merit in persisting in her denial.

When the fortress gates closed on Consuelo and her pretended secret, he reflected on the course he ought to adopt in relation to her, and, in conclusion, hoping if she returned to Berlin that she would suffer her secret to be discovered, determined to vindicate her. The first sentence he said to the king on the next day Frederick interrupted.

"What has she revealed?" said he.

"Nothing, sire."

"Then do not disturb me. I forbade you to speak of her. Never utter her name again before me."

This was said in such a tone that reply was impossible. Frederick certainly suffered when he thought of Porporina, for there was in his heart and conscience a tender point which quivered, as when a pin is driven into the flesh. To shake off this painful sensation he determined to forget the matter, and had no difficulty in doing so. Eight days had not elapsed, when, thanks to his strong character and the servile conduct of those around him, he forgot that Consuelo had ever existed. She was at Spandau. The theatrical season was over, and her piano had been taken from her. The king had given orders to that effect on the evening when, thinking to gratify him, the audience had applauded her even in his presence. Prince Henry was placed under an indefinite arrest. The Abbess of Quedlimburg was very sick. The king was cruel enough to make her think Trenck had been retaken, and was again in prison. Trismegistus and Saint Germain had really disappeared, and _la balayeuse_ no longer haunted the palace. What her apparition presaged really seemed confirmed. The youngest of the prince's brothers died of premature disease.

Added to these domestic troubles was the final dispute between Voltaire and the king. Almost all biographers have declared that Voltaire had the best of it. When we look closely at the documents, we find recorded circumstances which do honor to neither, though the most contemptible part was played by Frederick. Colder, more implacable, more selfish than Voltaire, Frederick was capable neither of envy nor hatred, and these bitter passions stripped Voltaire of a dignity the king knew how to assume. Among the bitter disputes which added, drop by drop, to the explosion, was one in which Consuelo was not named, but which prolonged the sentence of wilful oblivion pronounced on her. D'Argens was reading one evening the Parisian newspapers, in the presence of Voltaire. They mentioned the affair of M'lle Clairon, who was interrupted in her part by a spectator, who shouted out "_louder._" Called on to make an apology to the public, she cried out, in royal phraseology, "_et vous plus bas._"[11] The result was, she was sent to the _Bastille_ for having acted with as much pride as firmness. The newspapers said that this circumstance would not deprive the public of the pleasure of seeing M'lle Clairon, because during her incarceration she would be brought under an escort from the Bastille, to play the parts of _Phédre_ or _Chimene_, after which she would be returned to prison until her sentence had expired, which it was hoped and presumed would not be long.

Voltaire was very intimate with Clairon, because she had greatly contributed to the success of his dramatic works. He was indignant at the circumstance, and forgetting that a perfectly analogous circumstance was passing under his eyes, said--"This does little honor to France. The fool! to interrupt an actress in such a brutal manner--and such an actress as M'lle Clairon--stupid public! She make an apology--a lady--a charming woman! Brutes! Barbarians! The Bastile? In God's name, marquis, are you not amazed? A woman in the Bastile at this age--for a _bon mot_, full of mind, _apropos_, and taste! France, too!"

"Certainly," said the king, "La Clairon was playing _Electra_ and _Semiramis_; and the public, unwilling to lose a single word, should find favor with M. de Voltaire."

At another time, this remark of the king would have been flattering to Voltaire; but it was now uttered with such irony, that the philosopher was surprised, and it reminded him of the blunder he had committed. He had wit enough to repair it, but would not. The king's ill-temper excited him, and he replied: "No, sire: Madame Clairon would have disgraced my tragedy had she obeyed; and I cannot think the world has a police-system brutal enough to bury beauty, genius, and weakness in a dungeon."

This reply, added to others, and especially the brutal ridicule, cynical laughter, &c., reported to the king by the officious Poelnitz, super-induced the rupture with which all are acquainted, and supplied Voltaire with the means of making the most piquant complaints, most comical imprecations, and most bitter reproaches. Consuelo was more than ever forgotten, while Clairon left the Bastile in triumph. Deprived of her piano, the poor girl appealed to her courage, and continued to sing and compose at night. She succeeded, and did not fail to discover that her beautiful voice was improved by this most difficult practice. The fear of lunacy made her very circumspect. She was enabled to attend to herself alone, and a constant exercise of memory and mind was required. Her manner became more serious, and nearer perfection. Her compositions became more simple, and, at Spandau, she was the author of airs of wonderful beauty and grand sadness. Before long, however, she became aware of the injury which the loss of her piano did to her health and calmness. Knowing the necessity of ceaseless occupation, and unwilling to repose after exciting and stormy production and execution, by more tranquil study and research, she became aware that fever was gradually kindling in her veins, and she was plunged in grief. Her active character, which was happy and full of affectionate expansion, was not formed for isolation and the absence of sympathy. She would, in a few weeks have been sacrificed to this cruel _régime_, had not Providence sent her a friend whom she certainly did not expect to meet.

[Footnote 11: Royalty in Europe always uses the plural. The meaning of the phrase is, "And you SPEAK not so loudly!"]