Chapter XXV

The joy at finding him, like an angel of consolation in this insupportable solitude, silenced every fear that a moment before had filled her mind, though she entertained no hope of escape through him. She returned his embrace with passion, and as he tried to get loose from her arms to replace his black mask, which had fallen, she cried, "Do not leave me--do not desert me!" Her voice was supplicatory and her caresses irresistible. The stranger fell at her feet, concealing his face in the folds of her dress, which he kissed. He remained some time in a state half-way between pleasure and despair; then, taking up his mask, and placing a letter into Consuelo's hands, he hurried into the house, and disappeared, without her having been able to distinguish his features.

She followed him, and by the aid of a tiny lamp, which Matteus lighted every evening, at the foot of the stairway, she hoped to find him. Before she had gone more than a few steps, however, she saw no trace of him. She looked in vain through all the house, but saw nothing, and, but for the letter she had in her hands, would have thought all that had happened a dream.

At last, she determined to return to her boudoir and read the letter, the writing of which now seemed rather counterfeited intentionally than changed by pain. It was as follows:

"I can neither see nor speak to you, but I am not forbidden to write. Will you permit me? Will you dare to reply to the stranger? Had I this happiness, I might find your letters, and place mine in a book you could leave every evening on the bench near the water. I love you passionately--madly--wildly: I am conquered--my power is crushed. My activity, my zeal, my enthusiasm for the work to which I am devoted, all, even the feeling of duty, is gone, unless you love me. Bound by oath to strange and terrible duties, by the gift and abandonment of my will, I float between the idea of infamy and suicide: I cannot think you really love me, and that, at the present moment, distrust and fear have not effaced your passion for me. Could it be otherwise? I am to you but a shadow, only the dream of a night--the illusion of a moment. Well, to win your love, I am ready, twenty times a day, to sacrifice my honor, to betray my word, and sully my conscience by perjury. If you contrived to escape from this prison, I would follow you to the end of the world, were I to expiate, by a life of shame and remorse, the intoxication of your presence, though only for a day, and to hear you say once, though but once, 'I love you.' Yet, if you refuse to unite yourself to the Invisibles, if the oaths which soon are to be exacted from you prove repugnant, it will be forbidden me ever to see you. I will not obey, for I cannot--no, I have suffered enough--I have toiled, sufficiently toiled, in the service of man. If you be not the recompense of my labor, I will have nothing more to do with it. I destroy myself by returning to earth, its laws, its habits. Take pity, take pity on me. Tell me not that you do not love me. I cannot support the blow--I will not, cannot believe it. If I did, I must die."

Consuelo read the note amid the noise of guns, bombs, and fireworks, the explosion of which she did not hear. Engrossed by what she read, she experienced, without being aware of it, the impression produced on sensitive minds by the detonation of powder, and in general, by all violent noises. This principally influences the imagination, when it does not act physically on a weak, unhealthy body, by producing painful tremors. It exalts, on the other hand, the mind and senses of brave and well-constituted persons. It awakens even in the minds of some women, intrepid instincts, ideas of strife, and vague regrets that they are not men. In fine, there is a well-marked accent which makes us find an amount of quasi-musical enjoyment in the voice of the rushing torrent, in the roar of the breaking wave, in the roll of thunder; this accent of anger, wrath, menace and pride--this voice of power, so to say, is found in the roar of artillery, in the whistling of balls, and in the countless convulsions of the atmosphere which imitate the shock of battle in artificial fire-works.

Consuelo perhaps experienced the effects of this, while she read what may really be called the first _billet-doux_ she had ever received. She felt herself courageous, bold, and almost rash. A kind of intoxication made her feel this declaration of love more warm and persuasive than all Albert's words, precisely as she felt the kiss of Albert more soft and gentle than Anzoleto's. She then began to write without hesitation, and while the rockets shook the echoes of the park, while the odor of saltpetre stifled the perfume of flowers, and Bengalese fires illuminated the _façade_ of the house, unnoticed by her, Consuelo wrote in reply:

"Yes, I love you--I have said so; and even if I repent and blush at it, I never can efface from the strange, and incomprehensible book of my fate, the page I wrote myself and which is in your hands. It was the expression of a guilty impulse--mad, perhaps, but intensely true, and ardently felt. Had you been the humblest of men, I would yet have placed my ideal in you. Had I degraded myself by contemptuous and cruel conduct, I would yet have experienced by contact with your heart, an intoxication I had never known, and which appeared to me to be holy as angels are pure. You see I repeat to you what I wrote in relation to the confession I made to Beppo. We do nothing but repeat to each other what we are. I think we are keenly and truly satisfied of this mutual conviction. Why and how could we be deceived? We do not, and perhaps never will, know each other, and cannot explain the first causes of this love, any more than we can foresee its mysterious ends. Listen: I abandon myself to your word, to your honor, and do not combat the sentiments you inspire. Do not let me deceive myself. I ask of you but one thing--not to feign to love me--never to see me if you do not love me--to abandon me to my fate, whatsoe'er it be, with no apprehension that I should accuse or curse you for the rapid illusions of happiness you have conferred on me. It seems to me what I ask is easy. There are moments in which I am afraid, I confess, on account of my blind confidence in you. But as soon as you appear in my presence, or when I look at your writing, which is carefully disguised, as if you were anxious to deprive me of any visible and external index; in fine, when I hear the sound even of your steps, all my fears pass away, and I cannot refrain from thinking that you are my better angel. Why hide you thus? what fearful secret is hidden by your mask and your silence? Must I fear and reject you, when I learn your name or see your face? If you are absolutely unknown to me as you have written, why yield such blind obedience to the strange law of the Invisibles, even when, as to-day, you are ready to shake off your bonds and follow me to the end of the world? And if I exacted it, and fled with you, would you take off your mask and keep no secrets from me? 'To know you,' you say, 'it is necessary for me to promise'--what? For me to bind myself to the Invisibles? To do what? Alas! must I with closed eyes, mute, and without conscience, with my mind in darkness, _give up_ and abandon my will as you did, knowing your fate? To determine me to these unheard-of acts of devotion, would you not make a slight infraction of the regulations of your order? I see distinctly that you belong to one of those mysterious orders known here as _secret societies_, and which it is said are numerous in Germany; unless this be merely a political plot against----, as is said in Berlin. Let this be as it may, if I be left at liberty to refuse when I am told what is required of me, I will take the most terrible oaths never to make any revelations. Can I do more, without being unworthy of the love of a man who overcomes his scruples, and the fidelity of his oath so far as to be unwilling for me to hear that word I have pronounced myself, in violation of the prudence and modesty of my sex--'_I love you._'"

Consuelo placed this letter in a book she left at the indicated place in the garden. She then went slowly away, and was long concealed in the foliage, hoping to see the Chevalier come, and fearing to leave this avowal of her sentiments there, lest it should fall into other hands. As hours rolled by without any one coming, and she remembered these words of the stranger's letter, "I will come for your answer during your sleep," she thought it best to conform in all respects to his advice, and returned to her room, where, after many agitated reveries, successively painful and delicious, she went to sleep amid the uncertain music of the ball, the _fanfares_ which were sounded during the supper, and the distant sound of carriage wheels which announced, at dawn, the departure of the many guests from the castle.

At nine, precisely, the recluse entered the hall where she ate, and where her meals were served with scrupulous exactness, and with care worthy of the place. Matteus stood erect behind her chair, in his usual phlegmatic manner. Consuelo had been to the garden. The Chevalier had taken her letter, for it was not in the book. Consuelo had hoped to find another letter from him, and she already began to complain of lukewarmness in his correspondence. She felt uneasy, excited, and annoyed by the torpid life it seemed she was compelled to lead. She then determined to run some risk to see if she could not hasten the course of events which were slowly preparing around her. On that day Matteus was moody and silent.

"Master Matteus," said she, with forced gaiety, "I see through your mask, that your eyes are downcast and your face pale. You did not sleep last night."

"Madame laughs at me," said Matteus, with bitterness. "As madame, however, has no mask, it is easy to see that she attributes the fatigue and sleeplessness with which she herself has suffered, to me.

"Your mirrors told me that before I saw you, Master Matteus: I know I am getting ugly, and will be yet more changed, if _ennui_ continues to consume me."

"Does madame suffer from _ennui?_" said he, in the same tone he would have said, "Did madame ring?"

"Yes, Matteus, terribly; and I can no longer bear this seclusion. As no one has either visited or written to me, I presume I am forgotten here; and since you are the only person who does not neglect me, I think I am at liberty to say as much to you."

"I cannot permit myself to judge of madame's condition," said Matteus; "but it seems to me that within a short time, madame has received both a letter and a visit."

"Who told you so, Master Matteus?" said Consuelo, blushing.

"I would tell," said he, in a tone ironically humble, "if I were not afraid of offending madame and annoying her with my conversation."

"Were you my servant, I do not know what airs of grandeur I might assume with you; but as now I have no other attendant but myself, you seem rather my guardian than my major-domo, and I will trouble you to talk as you are wont. You have too much good sense to be tedious."

"As madame is _ennuyée_, she may just now be hard to please. There was a great entertainment last night at the castle."

"I know it. I saw the fire-works and heard the music."

"And a person who, since the arrival of madame, has been closely watched, took advantage of the disorder and noise to enter the private park, in violation of the strictest orders. A sad affair resulted from it. I fear, however, I would distress you by telling you."

"I think distress preferable to _ennui_ and anxiety. What was it, Matteus?"

"I saw this morning the youngest and most amiable, handsome and intelligent of all my masters taken to prison--I mean the Chevalier Leverani."

"Leverani? His name is Leverani?" said Consuelo, with emotion. "Taken to prison? The Chevalier? Tell me, for God's sake, who is this Leverani?"

"I have described him distinctly enough to madame. I know not whether she knows more or less than I do. One thing is certain--he has been taken to the great tower for having written to madame, and having refused to communicate her reply to his highness."

"The great tower!--his highness! What you tell me, Matteus, is serious. Am I in the power of a sovereign prince, who treats me as a state prisoner, and who punishes any of his subjects who exhibit sympathy towards me? Am I mystified by some noble with strange ideas, who seeks to terrify me into a recognition of gratitude for services rendered?"

"It is not forbidden me to tell madame that she is in the house of a rich prince, who is a man of mind and a philosopher."

"And chief of the Council of the Invisibles?"

"I do not know what madame means by that," said Matteus, with indifference. "In the list of his highness's titles and dignities, there is nothing of the kind recorded."

"Will I not be permitted to see the prince, to cast myself at his feet and ask the pardon of this Chevalier Leverani, who I am willing to swear is innocent of all indiscretion?"

"I think your wishes will be difficult of attainment. Yet I have access to his highness every evening, for a short time, to give an account of madame's occupations and health. If madame will write, perhaps I can induce him to read the letter, without its passing through the hands of the secretaries."

"Master Matteus, you are kindness personified; and I am sure you must have the confidence of the prince. Yes, certainly, I will write since you are generous enough to feel an interest in the Chevalier."

"It is true I feel a greater interest in him than in any other, for he saved my life at the risk of his own. He attended and dressed my wounds, and replaced the property I had lost. He passed nights watching me, as if he had been my servant, and I his master. He saved a niece of mine from degradation, and by his good advice and kind words made her an honest woman. How much good he has done in this country, and they say in all Europe. He is the best young man that exists, and his highness loves him as if he were his son."

"Yet his highness sends him to prison for a trifling fault?"

"Madame does not know that in his highness's eyes no fault is trifling which is indiscreet."

"He is then an absolute prince?"

"Admirably just, yet terribly severe."

"How, then, can I interest his mind and the decisions of his council?"

"I know not, madame is well aware. Many secret things are done in this castle, especially when the prince comes to pass a few weeks here, which does not often happen. A poor servant like myself, who dared to pry into them, would not be be long tolerated; and as I am the oldest of the household, madame must see I am neither curious nor gossiping--else----"

"I understand, Master Matteus; but would it be indiscreet to ask if the imprisonment to which the Chevalier is subjected is rigorous?"

"It must be, madame; yet I know of nothing that passes in the tower and dungeon. I have seen many go in, and none come out. I know not whether there be outlets in the forest, but there are none in the park."

"You terrify me. Can it be possible that I have been the cause of the Chevalier's misfortunes? Tell me, is the prince of a cold or violent disposition? Are his decrees dictated by passing indignation, or by calm and durable reflection?"

"It is not proper I should enter into these details," said the old man.

"Well, at least, talk to me of the Chevalier. Is he a man to ask and obtain pardon? or does he envelope himself in haughty silence?"

"He is tender and mild, and full of submission and respect to his highness. If madame has confided any secret to him, however, she may be at ease. He would suffer himself to be tortured, rather than give up the secrets of another, even to a confessor."

"Well, I will reveal to his highness the secret he thinks important enough to kindle his rage against an unfortunate man. Oh! my good Matteus, can you not take my letter at once?"

"It is impossible, madame, before night."

"Well, I will write now, for some unforeseen opportunity may present itself."

Consuelo went into her closet and wrote to the anonymous prince requesting an interview, and she promised to reply sincerely to all the questions he might ask.

At midnight Matteus brought her this answer--

"If you would speak to the prince, your request is absurd. You will not see and never will know his name. If you wish to appear before the Council of the Invisibles, you will be heard. Reflect calmly on your resolution, which will decide on your life and that of another."