Chapter XXII

The weather became worse and worse. The wind began to blow more violently, and our two fugitives walked for about half an hour, sometimes across the briars, and then across the tall grass. At last the rain became violent. Consuelo, as yet, had not said a word to her companion, but seeing him uneasy about her, and looking for a shelter, she said, "Do not be afraid on my account, Monsieur. I am strong, and only suffer from seeing you exposed to such fatigue and care for a person who is nothing to you, and for whom you do not care."

The stranger made a gesture of joy at the sight of a ruined house, in one corner of which he contrived to shelter his companion from the torrents of rain. The roof had been taken away and the space sheltered by the masonry was so small, that unless he stood close to Consuelo, the stranger was forced to receive all the rain. He, however, respected her condition, and went so far away as to banish all fear. Consuelo, however, would not consent to accept his self-denial. She called him, and seeing that he would not come, left her shelter, and said, in a tone she sought to make joyous, "Every one has his turn, Chevalier. I now will soak for a time. If you will not share with me, take a shelter yourself."

The Chevalier wished to lead Consuelo back to the place about which this amicable contest occurred. She resisted, however, and said, "No, I will not yield. I see that I offended you to-day, by expressing a wish to leave you at the frontier. I will atone for my offence at the expense of a severe cold even."

The Chevalier yielded, and sheltered himself. Consuelo, seeing that she owed him reparation, came to his side, though she was humbled at the idea of having to make advances to him. She had rather seem volatile than ungrateful, and, as an expiation of her fault, resolved to be submissive. The stranger understood this so well, that he stood as far from her as the small space they occupied would permit, and it was only two or three feet square. Leaning against the wall, he pretended to look away, lest he should annoy and trouble her by his anxiety. Consuelo was amazed that a man sentenced to silence, and who inflicted this punishment to a degree on himself, should divine and understand her so well. Every moment augmented her esteem for him, and this strange feeling made her heart beat so, that it was with great difficulty that she could breathe the air this man, who so strangely sympathised with her, inhaled.

After a quarter of an hour the storm became so lulled that the two travellers could resume their journey. The paths were thoroughly wet, and had become almost impassable for a woman. The Chevalier for some moments suffered Consuelo to slip, and almost fall. Suddenly, as if weary of seeing her fatigue herself, he took her in his arms, and supported her as easily as if she had been a child. She reproached him for doing so, it is true, but her reproaches never amounted to resistance. Consuelo felt fascinated and overpowered. She was transported by the cavalier through the wind and the storm, and he was not unlike the spirit of night, crossing ravines and thickets with as rapid and certain a step as if he had been immaterial. Then they came to the ford of a small stream, where the stranger took Consuelo in his arms, raising her up as the water became deep.

Unfortunately the torrents of rain had been so rapid, that the course of the rivulet was swollen, and it became a torrent, rolling in foam, and roaring turbulently. It was already up to the knight's belt, and in his efforts to sustain Consuelo, she feared that his feet, which were in the slimy mire of the bed of the streamlet, would slip. She became alarmed for his sake, and said, "For heaven's sake let me go; let me go--I can swim!"

Just then a violent blast of wind threw down one of the trees on the bank, towards which our travellers went, and this brought down an avalanche of stones and mud, which for a moment made a natural dike against the torrent. The tree had luckily fallen across the river, and the stranger was beginning to breathe, when the water, making a passage for itself, rushed into one headlong, mad current, against which it was impossible for him to contend any longer. He paused, and Consuelo sought to get out of his arms. "Leave me," said she; "I do not wish to be the cause of your death. I am strong, and bold also. Let me struggle for myself!"

The Chevalier, however, pressed her the closer to his heart. One might have fancied that he intended to die with her. She was afraid of his black mask--of this man, silent as the water-spirits of the old German ballads, who wished to drag her below with him. For more than a quarter of an hour the stranger contended with the fury of the wind and storm with a coolness and obstinacy which were really frightful, sustaining Consuelo above the water, and not advancing more than a single step in four or five minutes. He contemplated his situation calmly. It was as difficult for him to advance as to withdraw, for if he did the water might sweep him away. At last he reached the bank, and walked on, without permitting Consuelo to put her foot on the ground. He did not even pause to take breath, until he heard Karl, who was waiting anxiously for him, whistle. He then gave his precious burden into the arms of the deserter, and almost overpowered, sank on the ground. He was able only to sigh, not breathe, and it seemed as though his breast would burst. "Oh! my God, Karl!" said Consuelo, bending over him, "he will die! Listen to the death-rattle! Take off that mask, which suffocates him!"

Karl was about to obey, but the stranger by a painful effort, lifted up his icy hands, and seized that of the deserter. "True!" said Karl, "my oath, signora. I swore to him that even were he to die in your presence, I would not touch his mask. Hurry to the carriage, signora, and bring me the flask of brandy which is on the seat; a few drops will relieve him. Consuelo sought to go, but the Chevalier restrained her. If he were about to die, he wished to expire at her feet.

"That is right," said Karl, who, notwithstanding his rude manners, understood all love's mysteries, for he had loved himself. "You can attend to him better than I can. I will go for the flask. Listen, signora," he continued, in a low tone; "I believe if you loved him, and were kind enough to say so, that he will not die; otherwise I cannot promise."

Karl went away smiling. He did not share Consuelo's terror. He saw that the suffocating sensation of the Chevalier was becoming allayed. Consuelo was terror-stricken, and fancying she witnessed the death agony of this generous man, folded him in her arms, and covered his broad brow--the only part of his face the mask did not cover--with kisses.

"I conjure you," said she, "remove that mask. I will not look at you. Do so, and you will be able to breathe."

The stranger took Consuelo's two hands and placed them on his panting bosom, as much to feel their sweet warmth as to allay her anxiety to aid by unmasking him. At that moment all the young woman's soul was in that chaste embrace. She remembered what Karl had said, in a half growling and half softened mood.

"Do not die," said she; "do not die. Do you not see that I love you?"

Scarcely had she uttered these words than they seemed to have fallen from her in a dream. They had escaped her lips in spite of herself. The Chevalier had heard them. He made an effort to rise. He fell on his knees, and embraced those of Consuelo, who, in her agitation shed tears.

Karl returned with the flask. The Chevalier refused the favorite specific of the deserter, and leaning on him reached the coach, where Consuelo sat by him. She was much troubled at the cold, which could not but be communicated to him by his damp clothes.

"Do not be afraid, signora," said Karl, "the Chevalier has not had time to grow cold. I will wrap him up in his cloak, which I took care to put in the carriage when I saw the rain coming. I was sure he would be damp. When one has become wet, and puts on dry apparel over all, heat is preserved for a long time. It is as if you were in a warm bath, and it is not at all unhealthy."

"You, Karl, do the same thing; and take my mantle, for you have also got wet."

"I? Ah! my skin is thicker than yours. Put your mantle on the Chevalier; pack him up well; and if I kill the poor horse, I will hurry on to the next relay."

For an hour Consuelo kept her arms around the stranger; and her head resting on his bosom, filled him with life far sooner than all the receipts and prescriptions of Karl. She sometimes felt his brow, and warmed it with her breath, in order that the perspiration which hung on it might not be chilled. When the carriage paused, he clasped her to his breast with a power that showed he was in all the plenitude of life and health. He then let down the steps hastily, and disappeared.

Consuelo found herself beneath a kind of shed, face to face with an old servant, half peasant in his appearance, who bore a dark lantern, and led her by a pathway, bordered by a hedge, to an ordinary-looking house, a kind of summer retreat, the door of which he shut, after having ushered her in. Seeing a second door open, she went into a little room, which was very clean, and simply divided into two parts. One was a well-warmed chamber, with a good bed all prepared; and in the other was a light and comfortable supper. She noticed with sorrow that there was but one cover, and when Karl came to offer to serve her, she did not dare to tell him the only thing she wished was the company of her friend and protector.

"Eat and sleep yourself, Karl," said she, "I need nothing. You must be more fatigued than I am."

"I am no more fatigued than if I had done nothing but say my prayers by the hearthside with my poor wife, to whom may the Lord grant peace! How happy was I when I saw myself outside of Prussia; though to tell the truth, I do not know if I am in Saxony, Bohemia, Poland, or in China, as we used to say at Roswald, Count Hoditz's place."

"How is it possible, Karl, that you could sit on the box of the carriage, and not know a single place you passed through?"

"Because I never travelled this route before, signora; and I cannot read what is written on the bridges and signboards. Besides, we did not stop in any city or village, and always found our relays in the forest, or in the courtyard of some private house. There is also another reason, signora--I promised the Chevalier not to tell you."

"You should have mentioned that reason first, Karl, and I would not object. But tell me, does the Chevalier seem sick?"

"Not all, signora. He goes and comes about the house, which does not seem to do any great business, for I see no other face than that of the silent old gardener."

"Go and offer to help him, Karl. I can dispense with you."

"Why, he has already refused my services, and bade me attend to you."

"Well, mind your own affairs, then, my friend, and dream of liberty."

Consuelo went to bed about dawn, and when she had dressed, she saw by her watch that it was two o'clock. The day seemed clear and brilliant. She attempted to open the blinds, but in both rooms they were shut by a secret spring, like those of the post-chaise in which she had travelled. She sought to go out, but the doors were fastened on the outside. She went to the window, and saw a portion of a moderate orchard. Nothing announced the vicinity of a city or a travelled road. The silence of the house was complete. On the outside nothing was heard but the hum of insects, the cooing of pigeons on the roof, and from time to time the plaintive creaking of the wheelbarrow, where her eye could not reach. She listened mechanically to these agreeable sounds, for her ear had long been deprived of the sounds of rustic life. Consuelo was yet a prisoner, and the anxiety with which she was concealed gave her a great deal of unhappiness. She resigned herself for the time to a captivity the aspect of which was so gentle; and she was not so afraid of the love of the Chevalier as of Mayer.

Though Karl had told her to ring for him as soon as she was up, she was unwilling to disturb him, thinking he needed a longer sleep than she did. She was also afraid to awaken her other companion, whose fatigue must have been excessive. She then went into the room next to her chamber, and instead of the meal which she left on the previous evening, there was a collection of books and writing materials.

The books did not tempt her. She was far too much agitated to use them. But amid all her perplexity, she was delighted at being able to retrace the events of the previous night. Gradually the idea suggested itself, as she was yet kept in solitary confinement, to continue her journal, and she wrote the following preamble on a loose sheet:--

"Dear Beppo--For you alone I resume the story of my strange adventures. Accustomed to speak to you with the expansion of heart inspired by the conformity of ages and ideas, I can confide to you emotions my other friends would not understand, and would perhaps judge more severely. This commencement will tell you that I do not feel myself free from error. I have erred in my own opinion, but as yet I cannot appreciate the consequences.

"Joseph, before I tell you bow I escaped from Spandau, (which indeed appears trifling compared with what now occupies me), I must tell you... How can I? I do not know myself. Have I dreamed? I know that my heart burns and my brain quivers as if it would rush from me and take possession of another frame. I will tell you the story simply; for the whole truth, my friend, is contained in the simple phrase--_I love!_

"I love a stranger! a man, the sound of whose voice I have never heard! You will say this is folly. You are right; for love is but systematic folly. Listen, Joseph, and do not doubt that my happiness surpasses all the illusions of my first love, and that my ecstacy is too intoxicating to permit me to be ashamed at having so madly assented and foolishly placed my love, that I know not if I will be loved in return. Ah! I am loved! I feel it so well! Be certain that I am not mistaken; that now I love truly--I may say, madly! Why not? Does not love come from God? It does not depend on us to kindle it in our hearts, as we light a torch at the altar. All my efforts to love Albert, (whose name I now tremble to write,) were not sufficient to enkindle that ardent and pure flame. Since I lost him I loved his memory better than I ever did his person. Who knows how I could love him, were he restored to me again?"

Scarcely had Consuelo written these last words than she effaced them, not so much that they might not be read, as to shake off a feeling of horror at having ever suffered them to enter her mind. She was greatly excited, and the truth of the inspiration of love betrayed itself in spite of her wishes, in all her inmost thoughts. In vain she wished to continue to write, that she might more fully explain to herself the mystery of her heart. She found nothing that could more distinctly render its delicate shades than the words, "Who knows how I could love him, were he restored to me?"

Consuelo could be false. She had fancied that she loved the memory of a dead man with real love; but she now felt life overflowing in her heart, and a real passion take the place of an imaginary one.

She sought to read again all that she had written, and thus to recover from her disorder of mind. But it was in vain. Despairing of being able to enjoy calm enough to control herself, and aware that the effort would give her a fever, she crushed the sheet she had written in her hands, and threw it on the table until she might be able to burn it. Trembling like a criminal, with her face in a blaze, she paid attention to nothing, except that she loved, and that henceforth she could not doubt it. Some one knocked at the door of her room, and she went to admit Karl. His face was heated, his eyes haggard, and his jaws hanging. She thought him over-fatigued; but from his answers, soon saw that he had drank, in honor of his safe arrival, too much of his host's wine. This was Karl's only defect. One dram made him as confident as possible; another made him terrible.

He talked of the Chevalier, who seemed the only subject on his mind. He was so good, so kind. He made Karl sit down, instead of waiting at the table. He had insisted on his sharing his meal, and had poured out the best wine for him, ringing his glass with him, and holding up his head, as if he were a true Sclave.

"What a pity he is an Italian! He deserves to be a real Bohemian; for he carries wine as well as I do," said Karl.

"That is not saying much," said Consuelo, who was not highly charmed at the Chevalier measuring cups with a soldier. She soon, however, reproached herself for having thought Karl inferior to her and her friends, after the services he had done her. Besides, it was certainly to make him talk of her that the stranger had associated with her servant. Karl's conversation soon showed her that she was not mistaken.

"Oh! signora," added he simply, "this good young man is mad with love for you, and would commit even crime and incur disgrace to serve you."

"I will excuse him," said Consuelo, whom these expressions greatly displeased. Karl did not understand. She then said, "Can you explain why I am shut up here?"

"Ah! signora, did I know, I would have my tongue cut out rather than tell. I promised the Chevalier to answer none of your questions."

"Thank you. Then you love the Chevalier better than you do me?"

"Not so. I said not so, but since he satisfied me that he is in your interests, I must serve you in spite of yourself."

"How so?"

"I do not know; but I am sure it is so. He has ordered me, signora, to shut you up, to watch you, to keep you a prisoner until we come to----"

"Then we do not stay here?"

"We go at night. We will not travel by day, to save you from fatigue, and for other reasons I know nothing of."

"And you are to be my jailer?"

"I swore so on the bible, signora."

"Well, this Chevalier is a strange person. I am helpless then; but for a jailer I like you better than I did Herr Swartz."

"I will treat you better," said Karl kindly. "Now I will get your dinner."

"I want none, Karl."

"That is not possible. You must dine--and well, too. Such are my orders. You know what Swartz said about orders."

"Take him as your model, and you will not make me eat. He was only anxious I should pay."

"That was his business; but with me things are different. That concern is the chevalier's. He is not mean, for he scatters gold by handsful. He must be rich, or his fortune will not last."

Consuelo asked for a light, and went into the next room to burn what she had written, but during her absence it had disappeared.