Chapter XXI

Porporina, fancying that he had determined not to exchange a word with her, thought she could not do better than respect the strange vow which, like the old knight-errants, he seemed to be resolved to keep. To get rid of the sombre images and sad reflections suggested by Karl's story, she attempted to penetrate the unknown future which opened before her, and gradually sunk into a reverie full of charms. A few rare persons have the power of commanding their ideas in a state of contemplative idleness. Consuelo had often, during her three months' confinement at Spandau, had occasion to exert this faculty, which is granted less frequently to the happy in this world than to those who earn their living by toil, persecution, and danger. All must recognise this mystery as providential, without which the serenity of many unfortunate creatures would appear impossible to those who have not known misfortune.

Our fugitive was indeed in a condition strange enough to lay the foundations of many castles in the air. The mystery which surrounded her like a cloud, the fatality which led her into a fantastic world, the kind of paternal love which surrounded her with miracles, were quite sufficient to charm an imagination instinct with poetry as hers was. She recalled those words of holy writ, which in her imprisonment she had set to music:--"I shall send one of my angels to thee, and he shall bear thee in his hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. I walk in darkness, yet I walk without fear, for the Lord is with me." Thenceforth those words acquired a more distinct and divine signification. At a time when there is no faith in direct revelation, and in the sensible manifestation of the divinity, the protection and manifestations of heaven are translated by the affections, assistance, and devotion of our fellow-creatures. There is something so delicious in the abandonment of our conduct to those we love, and so to say, in feeling ourselves sustained by others. This happiness is so exquisite, that it would soon corrupt us, if we did not resist the disposition to abuse it. It is the happiness of a child, the golden dreams of whom are troubled, as it slumbers on its mother's bosom, by none of the apprehensions of human life.

These thoughts, which presented themselves like dreams to Consuelo on the occasion of her sudden escape from such a painful condition, wrapped her in such voluptuous calm, that sleep at last came to drown her sensations, in that kind of repose of body and mind which may be called pleasant and delicious annihilation. She had entirely forgotten the presence of her mute travelling companion, and awoke, finding herself near him, with her head leaning on his shoulder. At first she did not move, dreaming that she was travelling with her mother, and that the arm which sustained her was the Zingara's. When completely aroused, she was confused at her inadvertence. The arm of the stranger, however, was become a magic chain. Secretly she made vain attempts to get loose. The stranger seemed to sleep also, and had received his companion mechanically in his arms, as she sank in them overcome by fatigue and the motion of the coach. He had clasped his hands around Consuelo, as if to preserve her from falling while he slept. His sleep had not relaxed the force of his clasped hands, and it would have been necessary to have waked him to extricate herself. This Consuelo did not dare to do. She hoped he would voluntarily release her, and that she might return to her place without seeming to have remarked the delicate circumstances of their situation.

The stranger slept soundly, and Consuelo, whom the calmness of his breathing, and the immobility of his repose, had restored to confidence, went to sleep herself, being completely overcome by the exhaustion which succeeds violent agitation. When she awoke again, the head of her companion was pressed to hers, his mask was off, their faces touched, and their breathing was intermingled. She made a brisk effort to withdraw, without thinking to look at the features of the stranger, which would indeed have been difficult in the darkness. The stranger pressed Consuelo to his bosom, the heat of which was communicated to her own, and deprived her of the power and wish to remove. There was nothing violent or brutal in the embrace of this man. Chastity was neither offended nor sullied by his caresses, and Consuelo, as if a charm had been thrown around her, forgetting her prudence, and one might also say, the virginal coldness which she had never been tempted to part with, even in the arms of the fiery Anzoleto, returned the eager and enthusiastic kiss of the stranger.

As all about this mysterious being seemed strange and unusual, the involuntary transport of Consuelo seemed neither to surprise, to embolden, nor to intoxicate him. He yet pressed her closely to his bosom, and though he did so with unusual power, she did not feel the pain such an embrace usually inflicts on a delicate being. Neither was she sensible of the shame so great a forgetfulness of her habitual modesty would usually have created. No idea came to disturb the ineffable security of this moment of mutual and miraculous love. It was the first of her life. She was aware of the instinct, or rather it was revealed to her, and the charm was so complete, so divine, that it seemed impossible for it to be changed. He passed the extremity of his fingers, which were softer than the leaf of a flower, over the lids of Consuelo, and at once she sank to sleep again, as if by enchantment. On this occasion he remained awake, but apparently as calm as if the arrows of temptation never had entered his bosom. He bore Consuelo, she knew not whither, as an archangel might bear on his wings a seraph, amazed at the Godhead's radiation.

Dawn, and the freshness of morning, roused Consuelo from this kind of lethargy. She found herself alone in the carriage, and doubted if she had not dreamed that she loved. She sought to let down one of the blinds; they were, however, fastened by an external spring, the secret of which she did not know. She could receive air through them, and see flit by her, in broken and confused lines, the white and green margin of the road, but could make no observation nor discovery as to the route. There was something absolute and despotical in the protection extended over her. It was like a forcible carrying away, and she began to be afraid.

The stranger had disappeared, and the poor sinner became aware of all the anguish of shame, stupor and astonishment. Few theatre-girls (thus singers and dancers were then called) would have been thus annoyed by a kiss given in the dark to a very discreet stranger, especially after having been assured by Karl, as Porporina had been that her companion was of admirable figure and form. This act of folly was so repugnant to the manner and ideas of the prudent and good Consuelo, that she was greatly mortified by it. She asked pardon of Albert's manes, and blushed deeply at having in heart been unfaithful to his memory in so forward and thoughtless a manner. The tragical events of the night, and joy at her escape, she thought must have made her delirious. "Besides, how could I fancy that I entertained any love for a man who never spoke to me, and the face of whom I never saw. It is like one of the shameless adventures of masked balls, the possibility of which in another woman I could never conceive. What contempt this man must have conceived for me! If he did not take advantage of my error, it was because I was under the safeguard of his honor, or else an oath binds him to higher duties. Perhaps even he disdains me. Perhaps he guessed or saw that my conduct was the consequence of fever or delirium!"

In vain did Consuelo thus reproach herself; she could not resist a better feeling, which was more intense than all the pricks of conscience. She regretted having lost a companion whom she knew she had neither the right nor power to blame. He was impressed on her mind as a superior being, invested with magical, perhaps infernal power, which also was resistless. She was afraid, yet regretted that they had separated so suddenly.

The carriage went slowly, and Karl came to open the blind, "If you incline to walk a little, signora, the chevalier will be pleased. The road is very bad, and as we are in the woods, it seems there is no danger."

Consuelo leaned on Karl's shoulder, and sprang out on the sand without allowing him time to let down the steps. She was anxious to see her travelling companion, her improvised lover. She saw him, ere long, about thirty paces from her, with his back turned and wearing the vast grey cloak which he seemed determined to wear by day as well as by night. His bearing and the small portion of his head and extremities which were visible, announced a person of high distinction, and one anxious, by a studious toilette, to enhance the advantages of his person. The hilt of his sword, on which the rays of the morning sun shone, glittered on his side like a star, and the perfume of the powder, which well-bred people were then very fond of, left behind him in the morning air the trace of a man perfectly _comme il faut._

"Alas!" thought Consuelo, "he is, perhaps, some fool, or contraband lord, or haughty noble: whoever he be, he turns his back on me, and is right."

"Why do you call him the _Chevalier?_" asked she of Karl, continuing her reflections aloud.

"Because I heard the drivers call him so."

"The _Chevalier_ of what?"

"That is all. Why, signora, do you wish to find out? Since he wishes to be unknown, it seems to me that he renders you sufficient service at the risk of his own life, to insure your suppression of curiosity. For my part I would travel ten years without asking whither he wished to take me; he is so brave, so good, so gay."

"So gay! That man so gay?"

"Certainly. He is so delighted at having aided you, that he cannot be silent. He asked a thousand questions about Spandau, yourself, Gottlieb, myself, and the King of Prussia. I told him all I knew, all that had happened, and even of Roswald: it does a man so much good to talk Bohemian to one who understands you, instead of speaking to those Prussians, who know no tongue but their own."

"He is a Bohemian, then?"

"I ventured to ask that question, and he answered briefly and rather dryly. I was wrong to question him, instead of answering his questions."

"Is he always masked?"

"Only when he is with you. Ah! he is a strange person, and evidently seeks to tease you."

Karl's good humor and confidence, however, did not altogether reassure Consuelo. She saw that he united, to much bravery and determination, an honesty and simplicity of heart, which could easily be abused. Had he not relied on Mayer's good faith? Had he not even put her in that scoundrel's room? Now he yielded blindly to a stranger, and was conveying Consuelo away, so that she would be exposed to the most dangerous influences. She remembered the note of the Invisibles: "A snare is set for you--a new danger menaces you. Distrust any one who shall attempt to induce you to fly before we give you certain information," &c. No note had come to confirm that, and Consuelo, delighted at having met Karl, thought this worthy servant sufficiently authorised to serve her. Was not the stranger a traitor? whither was she so mysteriously taken? Consuelo had no friend who at all resembled the fine figure of the Chevalier, except Frederick Von Trenck. Karl knew the baron perfectly, and he was not her travelling companion. The Count de Saint Germain and Cagliostro were not so tall. While she looked at the stranger in search of something which would identify him, Consuelo came to the conclusion that she had never in her life seen any one with so much grace and ease. Albert alone had as much majesty; but his slow step and habitual despondency had not that air of strength, that activity and chivalric power, which characterised the stranger.

The woods became light and the horses began to trot, to catch up with the travellers who had preceded them. The Chevalier, without turning round, reached out his arm and shook his handkerchief which was whiter than snow. Karl understood the signal and put Consuelo in the carriage, saying, "Apropos, signora, in the boxes under the seats you will find linen, apparel, and all that you need to dress and eat when you please. There are books there, also. It seems that the carriage is a hotel on wheels, and that you will not leave it soon."

"Karl," said Consuelo, "I beg of you to ask the Chevalier if I will be free as soon as I shall have passed the frontier, to thank him and to go whithersoever I please."

"Signora, I cannot dare to say so unkind a thing to so polite a man."

"I require you to do so. You will give me his answer at the next relay since he will not speak to me."

The stranger said the lady was perfectly free, and that her wishes were orders. He said that her safety and that of her guide, as well as of Karl, demanded that she should oppose no difficulty to the selection of her route and her asylum. Karl added, with an air of _naïf_ reproof, that this distrust seemed to mortify the Chevalier very much, and that he had become sad and melancholy.

The whole day passed without any incident. Shut up in the carriage as close as if she were a prisoner of state, Consuelo could form no idea about the direction she travelled. She changed her clothes with great satisfaction, for she saw with disgust several drops of Mayer's black blood on her dress. She sought to read, but her mind was too busy. She determined to sleep as soon as possible, hoping in this manner to forget the sooner the mortification of her last adventure. _He_ evidently had not forgotten it, and his respectful delicacy made Consuelo yet more ridiculous and guilty in her own opinion. At the same time she was distressed at the inconvenience and fatigue which he bore in a seat too narrow for two persons, side by side with a great soldier disguised as a servant, _comme il faut_ certainly, but whose tedious and dull conversation must necessarily be annoying to him. Besides, he was exposed to the fresh air of the night, and was deprived of sleep. This courage might be presumption. Did he think himself irresistible? Did he think that Consuelo, recovered from the first surprise, would not resist his by far too paternal familiarity?

The poor girl said all this to console her downcast pride. It is very certain that she desired to see the Chevalier, and feared above all things his disdain at the triumphs of an excess of virtue which would have rendered them strangers to each other forever.

About midnight they halted in a ravine. The weather was bad, and the noise of the wind in the foliage was like running water. "Signora," said Karl, opening the door, "we are now come to the most inconvenient portion of our journey. We must pass the frontier. With money and boldness it is possible to do anything. Yet it would not be prudent to attempt to do so on the highroad, and under the eyes of the police. I am no one, and risk nothing. I will drive the carriage slowly with a single horse, as if I took a new purchase of my master to a neighboring estate. You will take a cross-road with the Chevalier, and may find the pathway difficult. Can you walk a league over a bad road?"

Consuelo having said yes, the Chevalier gave her his arm. "If you reach the place of rendezvous before me, signora," said Karl, "you will wait for me, and will not be afraid."

"I am afraid of nothing," said Consuelo with a tone of mingled tenderness and pride, "for this gentleman protects me. But, Karl, do you run no risk?"

Karl shrugged his shoulders, and kissed Consuelo's hand. He then began to fix his horse, and our heroine set out across the country with her silent protector.