Chapter XXVI

She had to wait twenty four hours after the receipt of this letter. Matteus said he would rather have his hand cut off than ask to see the prince after midnight. At breakfast, on the next day, he appeared more talkative than on the evening before, and Consuelo thought she observed that the imprisonment of the Chevalier had embittered him against the prince so much as to make him indiscreet, probably for the first time in his life. When she had made him talk for an hour, she discovered that no greater progress had been made in gleaning information than on the previous day. Whether he had played with her simplicity, to learn her thoughts and opinions, or whether he knew nothing in relation to the Invisibles, and the participation of his masters in their acts, he saw that Consuelo floated in a strange confusion of contradictory notions. In relation to all that concerned the social condition of the prince, Matteus maintained the rigid silence which had been imposed on him. He shrugged his shoulders, it is true, when he spoke of this strange order, the necessity of which he confessed he did not see. He did not comprehend why he should use a mask when he attended to persons, who came one after another, at greater or less intervals--and for a greater or shorter stay at the pavilion. _He could not refrain_ from saying that his master had strange fancies, and was devoted to the strangest enterprises. In his house, however, all curiosity as well as all indiscretion was paralyzed by the fear of terrible punishment, in relation to which he would say nothing. In fact, Consuelo learned nothing, except that strange things took place at the castle, that they rarely slept at night, and that all the servants had seen ghosts. Matteus himself, and he was no coward, had seen in the winter, at times when the prince was away, and the castle unoccupied by its owners, figures wandering about the park which made him shudder, for they came and went none knew whither or whence. But this threw little light on Consuelo's situation. She had to wait until night, before she could send a new petition--which ran as follows:

"Whatever be the consequence to me, I ask humbly, to be brought before the tribunal of the Invisibles."

The day seemed endless; she sought to overcome her impatience and uneasiness, by singing all she had composed in prison, in relation to the grief and _ennui_ of solitude, and she concluded this rehearsal with the sublime air of Almireno in the _Rinalda_ of Haëndel.

Lascia ch 'lo nianga, La dura sorte, E ch lo sospiri La liberta.

Scarcely had she concluded, when a violin with an extraordinary vibration repeated outside, the admirable musical phrase she had just sung, with an expression full of pain, and sorrowful as her own. Consuelo went to the window but saw no one, and the phrase lost itself in the distance. It seemed to her that this wonderful instrument and instrumentation could be Count Albert's alone. She soon dismissed this idea, as calculated to lead her back to a train of painful and dangerous illusions which had already caused her too much suffering. She had never heard Albert play any modern music, and none but an insane person would insist on evoking a spectre every time the sound of a violin was heard. This idea distressed Consuelo, and threw her into such a succession of sad reveries, that she aroused herself only at nine o'clock, when she remembered that Matteus had brought her neither dinner nor supper, and that she had fasted since morning. This circumstance made her fear that, like the Chevalier, Matteus had been made a victim to the interest he expressed for her. The walls certainly had eyes and ears. Matteus had perhaps said too much, and murmured a little against the disappearance of Leverani. "Was it not probable," she asked herself, "that he had shared the Chevalier's fate?"

This new anxiety kept Consuelo from being aware of the inconveniences of hunger. Matteus did not appear; she ventured to ring. No one came. She felt faint and hungry, and much afraid.

Leaning on the window-sill, with her head in her hands, she recalled to her mind, which was already disturbed by the want of food, the strange incidents of her life; and asked herself whether the recollection of reality or a dream made her aware that a cold hand was placed on her head, and that a low voice said, "Your demand is granted; follow me!"

Consuelo had not yet thought of lighting her rooms, but had been able clearly to recognise objects in the twilight, and tried to distinguish the person who thus spoke to her. She found herself suddenly enwrapped in intense darkness, as if the atmosphere had become compact and the sky a mass of lead. She put her hand to her brow, which the air seemed not to touch, and felt on it a hood which was at once as light and impenetrable as that which Cagliostro had previously thrown over her head. Led by an invisible hand, she descended the stairway of the house, but soon discovered there were more steps than she had been aware of, and that for half an hour she went through caverns.

Fatigue, hunger, emotion, and terror, gradually made her steps more, and more feeble; and feeling every moment as if she was about to fall, she was on the point of imploring aid. A certain pride, however, made her ashamed of abandoning her resolution, and induced her to act courageously. She soon reached the end of her journey, and was made to sit down. Just then she heard a melancholy bell, like the sound of a tom-tom, striking twelve slowly, and at the last stroke the hood was removed from her brow, which was covered with perspiration.

She was at first dazzled by the blaze of many lights immediately in front of her, arranged in cruciform on the wall. As soon as her eyes became used to this transition, she saw that she was in a vast Gothic hall, the vault of which, divided by hanging arches, resembled a deep dungeon or a subterranean chapel. At the foot of this room she saw seven persons, wrapped in red mantles, with their faces covered by livid white masks, making them look like corpses. They sat behind a long black marble table. Before them, at a table of less length was an eighth spectre, clad in black, and masked with white, also seated. On each side of the lateral walls stood a score of men, each of whom was wrapped and veiled with black. Consuelo looked around, and saw behind her other phantoms in black. At each of the two doors there were two others with drawn swords.

Under other circumstances Consuelo would perhaps have said that this melancholy spectacle was but a game--one of those tests to which candidates were subjected in the masonic lodges at Berlin. The freemasons, however, never constituted themselves into a court, and did not attribute to their body the right to drag persons who were not initiated, before their lodges. She was therefore disposed, from all that had preceded this scene, to think it serious and even terrible. She discovered that she trembled visibly, and but for five minutes of intense silence which pervaded the whole assembly, would not have been able to regain her presence of mind and prepare to reply.

The eighth judge at last arose, and made a sign to the two ushers who stood with drawn swords on each side of Consuelo, to bring her to the foot of the tribunal, where she stood erect, in an attitude of calmness and courage, not a little affected.

"Who are you, and what do you ask?" said the man in black rising.

Consuelo for a few moments was stupefied, but regained courage, and said--

"I am Consuelo--a singer by profession--known also as La Zingarella and La Porporina."

"Have you no other name?" said the examiner.

Consuelo hesitated, and then said--

"I _can_ claim another; yet I am bound in honor never to do so."

"Do you expect to conceal anything from the tribunal? Think you that you are in the presence of ignorant judges! Why are you here, if you seek to abuse us by idle pretences? Name yourself. Tell us who you are or depart."

"You know who I am, and are also aware that my silence is a duty, and you encourage me to maintain it."

One of the red cloaks leaned forward and made a sign to one of the black, and in a moment all the latter left the room, with the exception of the examiner, who kept his seat and spoke thus:

"Countess of Rudolstadt," said he, "now that the examination is become secret, and that you are in the presence of your judges alone, will you deny that you are lawfully married to Count Albert Podiebrad, called de Rudolstadt, by virtue of the claims of his family?"

"Before I answer that question, I wish to know what authority disposes of all things around me, and what law obliges me to recognise it?"

"What law would you invoke--human or divine? The law of society places you in dependence on Frederick II., King of Prussia, Elector of Brandebourg, from the estates of whom we rescued you, thus saving you from indefinite captivity and yet more terrible dangers as you well know."

"I know," said Consuelo, kneeling, "that eternal gratitude binds me to you. I invoke only the law of God, and beseech you to define to me that of gratitude. Does it enjoin me to bless and to devote myself to you from the depth of my heart? I will do so. But if it enjoins me to obey you, in violation of the decrees of my conscience, should I not reject? Decide you for me."

"May you in the world act and think as you speak? The circumstances which subject you to our control escape ordinary reason. We are above all human law, and this you will recognise by our power. The prejudices of fortune, rank, and birth, fear of public opinion, engagements even contracted with the sentiments and sanction of the world, have to us no significance, no value. When removed from men, and armed with the light of God's justice, we weigh in the hollow of our hand the sands of your frivolous and timid life. Explain yourself without subterfuge before us, the living law of all. We will not hear you till we know how you appear here. Does the Zingarella Consuelo or the Countess of Rudolstadt appear before us?"

"The Countess of Rudolstadt having renounced all her social rights, has nothing to ask here. The Zingarella Consuelo--"

"Pause and weigh well the words you are about to utter. Were your husband living, would you have a right to withdraw your faith, to abjure your name, to reject his fortune--in a word, to become a Zingarella again, merely to gratify your pride of family and caste?"

"Certainly not."

"And think you death has broken all bonds forever? Do you owe to Albert's memory neither respect, love, nor fidelity?"

Consuelo blushed and became troubled. The idea that, like Cagliostro and the Count Saint Germain, they were about to talk of Albert's resurrection, filled her with such terror that she could not reply.

"Wife of Albert Podiebrad," said the examiner, "your silence accuses you. Albert to you is dead, and in your eyes the marriage was but an incident in your adventurous life, without consequence and without obligation. Zingara, you may go. We are interested in your fate only on account of your union with one of the best of men. You are unworthy of our love, having been unworthy of his. We do not regret the liberty we gave you, for the reparation of the wrongs inflicted by despotism is one of our duties and pleasures. Our protection will go no further. To-morrow you will quit the asylum we provided for you, with the hope that you would leave it purified and sanctified. You will return to the world, to the chimera of glory, to the intoxication of foolish passions. God have mercy on you! for we abandon you forever."

For some moments Consuelo was terrified by the decree. A few days sooner, she would have accepted it without a word; but the phrase _foolish passion_, which had been pronounced, recalled to her mind the mad love she had conceived for the stranger, and which she had hugged to her heart almost without examination and scrutiny.

She was humbled in her own eyes, and the sentence of the Invisibles appeared to her, to a certain extent, to be deserved. The sternness of their words filled her with mingled respect and terror, and she thought no more of contending against the right they claimed to condemn her as a dependant of their authority. It is seldom that, great as our natural pride may be, or irreproachable as may be our life, we do not feel the influence of a grave charge made unexpectedly against us, and instead of contesting it, look into our hearts to see whether we deserve censure or not. Consuelo did not feel free from reproach, and the theatrical effect displayed around her, made her situation painful and strange. But she soon remembered that she had not appeared before the tribunal without being prepared to submit to its rigor. She had come thither resolved to submit to admonition or any punishment necessary to procure the exculpation or pardon of the Chevalier. Laying aside, then, all her self-love, she submitted to their reproaches, and for some minutes thought what she should say.

"It is possible," said she, "that I merit this stern censure, for I am far from being satisfied with myself. When I came hither, I had formed an idea of the Invisibles which I wish to express. The little I have learned from popular rumor of your order, and the boon of liberty you have restored to me, have led me to think that you were men perfect in virtue as you were powerful in society. If you be what I have believed you, why repel me so sternly, without pointing out the road for me to avoid error and become worthy of your protection? I know that on account of Albert of Rudolstadt, who as you say was one of the most excellent of men, his widow was entitled to some consideration. But even were I not the widow of Albert, or had I always been unworthy of him, the Zingara Consuelo, a woman without name, family, or country, has some claims on your paternal solicitude. Allow that I have been a great sinner, are you not like the kingdom of heaven, where the repentance of a guilty one gives greater joy than the constancy of hundreds of the elect? In fine, if the law which unites you be a divine law, you violate it when you repel me. You had undertaken, you said, to purify and sanctify me. Try to elevate my soul to the dignity of your own. Prove to me that you are holy, by appearing patient and merciful, and I will accept you as my masters and models."

There was a moment of silence, and they seemed to consult together. At last one of them spoke.

"Consuelo, you came hither full of pride, why do you not retire thus? We had the right to censure, because you came to question us. We have no right to chain your conscience and take possession of your life, unless you abandoned both to us freely. Can we ask you for this sacrifice? You do not know us. The tribunal, the holiness of which you invoke, is perhaps the most perverse, or at least the most audacious, which ever acted in the dark against the principles which rule the world. What know you of it? Were we to reveal to you the profound science of an entirely new virtue, would you have courage to consecrate yourself to so long and arduous a study without being aware of its object? Could we have confidence in the perseverance of a neophyte so badly prepared as yourself? Perhaps we might have weighty secrets to confide to you, and we would depend for their security only on your generous instincts. We know you well enough to confide in your discretion. We do not seek discreet confidants, for we have no want of them. To advance God's law we need fervent disciples, free from all prejudices, from all egotism, from all frivolous passions and worldly desires. Look into yourself and see if you can make these sacrifices. Can you control your actions and regulate your life in obedience to your instincts, and on the principles we will give you to develop? Woman, artist, girl, dare you reply that you can associate yourself with stern men to toil in the work of ages?"

"What you say is serious indeed," said Consuelo, "and I scarcely understand it. Will you give me time to think? Do not repel me from your bosom until I shall have questioned my heart. I know not if it be worthy of the light you can shed on it. But what sincere heart is unworthy of the truth? In what can I be useful to you? I am terrified at my impotence. To have protected me as you have done, you must have seen there was something in me. Something, too, says to me, that I should not leave you without having sought to prove my gratitude. Do not banish me then. Try to instruct me."

"We will grant you eight days more to reflect," replied the judge in the red robe, who had previously spoken. "But you must, in the first place, bind yourself on your honor, to make no attempt to discover where you are, and who are the persons you see here. You must promise not to pass beyond the enclosure, even should you see the gates open, and the spectres of your dearest friends calling on you. You must ask no questions of the persons who serve you, nor of any one who may come clandestinely to you."

"So be it," said Consuelo eagerly. "I promise as you desire, to see no one without your authority, and ask pardon humbly."

"You have no pardon to ask--no questions to propound. All the necessities both of your body and soul have been foreseen for the whole time you remain here. If you regret any friend, any relation, any servants, you are free to go. Solitude, or such association as we determine on, will be your lot here."

"I ask nothing for myself. I have heard, however, that one of your friends, disciples, or servants, (for I know not his rank) suffers a severe punishment on my account. I am here to accuse myself of the offence imputed to him, and on that account I asked to appear before you."

"Do you offer to make a detailed and sincere confession?"

"If such be required to secure his acquittal; though to a woman it is a severe moral torture to confess herself to eight men."

"Spare yourself this humiliation. We would have no assurance that you are sincere, inasmuch as we have no right over you. All you have said and thought during the last hour to us will be as a dream. Remember that hereafter we have the right to sound the secrets of your heart. Keep it always so pure, that you can unveil it without suffering and without shame."

"Your generosity is delicate and paternal. But I am not the only person interested. Another expiates my offence. Can I not justify him?"

"That does not concern you. If there be one among us guilty, he will exculpate himself, not by vain assertions and allegations, but by acts of courage, devotion, and virtue. If his soul has quailed, we will lift him up, and aid him to overcome himself. You speak of severe punishment. We inflict none but moral penalties. Whoever he be, he is our equal--our brother. Here there are neither masters nor servants, subjects nor princes. False rumors have deceived you, no doubt. Go in peace and sin no more."

At this last word the examiner rang a bell, and the men in black masks and with naked swords returned. Replacing the hood on Consuelo's head, they returned her to the house she had left, by the route they had brought her from it.