Chapter XXVIII

On the next day Consuelo felt overcome both in body and mind. The cynical revelations of Supperville, following so closely on the paternal encouragements of the Invisibles, produced the same effect as if she had, after a pleasant warmth, been dipped in iced-water. She had been lifted to heaven, to sink again to earth, She was almost angry with the doctor for having undeceived her; for in her dreams she had already seen, clad with dazzling majesty, the august tribunal which opened its arms to her as a home, as a refuge against the dangers of earth and the mistakes of youth.

Nevertheless, the doctor seemed to merit the gratitude of Consuelo, who recognised it without being able to sympathise with him. Was not his conduct that of a sincere, brave, and disinterested man? Consuelo, however, found him too skeptical, too much of a materialist, and too much inclined to contemn good intentions and ridicule good characters. In spite of what he had said of the imprudent and dangerous credulity of the prince, she formed an exalted idea of the noble old man, who was ardent for good, and implicit in his belief of human perfectibility. She recalled to mind the conversation she had in the subterranean hall, which seemed full of calm authority and austere wisdom. Charity and kindness appeared beneath the mask of affected sternness, ready to burst forth at the first impulse of Consuelo's heart. Would swindlers, avaricious men, and charlatans have thus acted and spoken to her? The bold enterprise of reforming the world, which seemed so ridiculous to Supperville, was the eternal wish, the romantic hope with which Albert had inspired his wife, and with which she had found something sympathetic in the diseased but generous head of Gottlieb. Was not this Supperville to be hated, then, for having sought to tear away, at the same time, her faith in God and her confidence in the Invisibles.

Consuelo, more given to poetry of the soul, than to the dry contemplation of the sad realities of life, contended against the words of Supperville, and attempted to disprove them. Had he not indulged in gratuitous suppositions, had he not owned that he was not initiated in the subterranean world, and seemed ignorant even of the name and existence of the Invisibles? Trismegistus might be a Chevalier d'Industrie, yet the Princess Amelia affirmed the contrary, and the friendship of Golowken, the best and wisest of the grandees Consuelo had met at Berlin, spoke in his favor. If Cagliostro and St. Germain were both impostors, it did not render it impossible for them to be imposed on by a wonderful likeness. Though the three were condemned, it did not follow they were a part of the council of the Invisibles; and that body of venerable men might reject their advice as soon as Consuelo had established that Trismegistus was not Albert. Would it not be time to withdraw her confidence after this decisive test, should they persist in seeking to impose on her so grossly? Consuelo resolved, at that point, to tempt fate, and learn more of the Invisibles, to whom she was indebted for liberty, and whose paternal reproaches had reached her heart. She determined on this; and while awaiting the issue of the affair, resolved to consider what Supperville had told her as a test to which he had been authorised to subject her, or as a means of giving vent to his spleen against rivals who had more influence with, or were better treated by the prince than himself.

One hypothesis tormented Consuelo more than all others. Was it absolutely impossible for Albert to be alive? Supperville had not observed the phenomena which had preceded, by two years, his final illness. He even refused to believe them, persisting in thinking that the frequent absences of Albert in the cavern were consecrated to gallant rendezvous with Consuelo. She alone, with Zdenko, was in the secret of these lethargic crises. The vanity of the doctor would not permit him to own that he was mistaken in declaring him dead. Now that Consuelo was aware of the existence and material power of the Council of the Invisibles, she dared conjecture that means had been found to rescue Albert from the horrors of a premature burial, and that for secret purposes he had been received among them. All the revelations of Supperville, in relation to the mysteries and whimsicalities of the castle, and the prince aided the confirmation of this supposition. The resemblance of the adventurer, known as Trismegistus, might complicate the marvellous part of the circumstance, but could not destroy its possibility. This idea took such complete possession of Consuelo that she relapsed into profound melancholy. Were Albert alive, she would not hesitate to rejoin him as soon as she was permitted, and would devote herself eternally to him. She was now more than ever aware how much she would suffer from a devotion in which there was no element of love. The Chevalier appeared to her as a cause of deep regret, and her conscience a source of future remorse. Were she forced to renounce him, the new love would, like all love which was opposed, become a passion. Consuelo did not ask herself with hypocritical resignation, why her dear Albert would leave the tomb where he was so comfortable. She said it was in her destiny to sacrifice herself to this man, perhaps after he was dead, and she wished to fulfil this fate: yet she suffered strangely, and lamented the Chevalier, her most ardent, and her involuntary love.

She was roused from her meditations by a faint noise and the fluttering of a wing on her shoulder. She uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy at seeing a pretty red-throat enter the room and come kindly to her. After a hesitation of a few minutes, the bird took a flight from her hand.

"Is it you, my poor friend, my faithful companion?" said Consuelo, with tears of childish joy. "Can it be possible that you have sought for and found me? No, that cannot be. Pretty, confiding creature, you are like my friend, yet are not he. You belong to some gardener, and have escaped from the enclosure where you pass your time amid the flowers. Come to me, consoler of the prisoner. Since the instinct of your race impels you to associate with the solitary captive, I will bestow on you the love I felt for another of your race."

Consuelo toyed half an hour with the little captive, when she heard without a kind of whistle, which made the intelligent creature tremble. It dropped the food she had given it, made its great eyes glisten and expand, and flew through the window in obedience to an incontestable authority. Consuelo looked after it, and saw it lose itself amid the foliage. While looking at it, she saw in the depth of the garden, on the other side of the stream which bounded it, a person easy to be recognised, notwithstanding the distance. Gottlieb was walking along the bank, apparently happy, and attempting to leap and bound. Forgetting for a moment the order of the Invisibles, Consuelo sought, by waving her handkerchief, to attract his attention; but he was absorbed by the thought of regaining his bird. He looked up among the trees as he whistled, and went on without having seen Consuelo.

"Thank God, and the Invisibles too! in spite of Supperville," said she. "The poor lad appears happier and in better health. His guardian angel, the red-throat, is with him. This appears the presage of a smiling fate to me also. Come, let me not doubt our protectors any more. Distrust withers the heart."

She sought how she could occupy her time in a useful manner, to anticipate the new moral education announced to her; and for the first time since she had been at ****, she went into the library, which she had as yet only looked at in a cursory manner, and resolved to examine seriously the selection of books at her disposal. They were not numerous, but were extremely curious, and probably rare, if not unique. There was a collection of the writings of the most remarkable philosophers of all ages and nations, abridged so as to contain only the very essence of their doctrines, and translated into languages Consuelo could read. Many, never having been published, were in manuscript, particularly the heretical writers of the middle ages, precious spoils of the past, fragments and even complete copies of which had escaped the search of the Inquisition and the later violations of the old castles of the German heretics, during the Thirty Years' War. Consuelo could not appreciate the value of these philosophical treasures, collected by some ardent and persevering bibliographer. The originals would have interested her, on account of their characters and vignettes. She had, however, only a translation, made carefully by some modern calligrapher. She looked first for the faithful translations of Wickliffe, John Huss, and the renowned Christian philosophers who attached themselves in other days, though at different eras, to those fathers of the new religion.

She had not read them, but they were familiar to her from her long conversations with Albert. As she turned over the leaves in a cursory manner, she became better and better acquainted with them. Consuelo had an eminently philosophical mind. Had she not lived amid the reasoning and clear-sighted world of her day, she would easily have become superstitious and fanatical. As it was, she understood the enthusiastic discourses of Gottlieb better than Voltaire's philosophy, then studied so ardently by the women of Europe. This intelligent and simple girl was courageous and tender, but had not a mind formed for subtle reasoning. She was educated by the heart, rather than the head. Seizing the revelations of sentiment by prompt assimilation, she was capable of being instructed philosophically. She was wonderfully so for her age, sex, and position, from the instruction of the eloquent and loved Albert. Artistic organizations acquire more in the emotions of an address or lecture, than in the cold and patient study of books. Such was Consuelo. She could scarcely read a page attentively, yet, if a great thought, glowingly expressed, struck her, she repeated it like a musical phrase, and the sense, however profound it might be, entered her mind like a divine ray. She existed on this idea, and applied it to all her emotions. This was to her a real power, and lasted her through life. To her it was not a vain sentence, but a rule of conduct, an armor for combat. Why analyse and study the book whence she had got it? The whole book was in her breast as soon as the inspiration, seized her.

Her destiny required her to do nothing more. She did not pretend to claim a knowledge of the world of philosophy. She felt the warmth of the secret revelations which have been granted to poetic souls when in love. In this disposition she looked for several days over books, without reading anything. She could give an account of nothing; more than one page, however, in which she had read but one line, was bedewed with tears, and she often hurried to her piano, to _improvise_ songs, the tenderness and grandeur of which were the burning and spontaneous expression of her generous emotion.

A whole week rolled over her, in a solitude which Matteus' association did not trouble. She had resolved not to address the least question to him, and perhaps he had been scolded for his indiscretion, for he was now as silent as he had been prolix heretofore. The red-throat came to see Consuelo every day, but without Gottlieb. It seemed this tiny being (Consuelo was half inclined to think it enchanted) came at regular hours to amuse her, and returned punctually at noon to its other friend. In fact, there was nothing wonderful about it. Animals at liberty have certain customs, and make a regular disposition of their time, with more foresight and intelligence than domestic animals. One day Consuelo observed that it appeared constrained and impatient, and that it did not fly so gracefully as usual. Instead of perching on her fingers, it thought of nothing but pecking with its nails and bill at an irritating impediment. Consuelo approached him, and saw a black thread hanging from its wing. The poor creature had been taken in a snare, she thought, and had escaped only by its address, bearing off with it a portion of its chain. She had no difficulty in removing it, yet had not a little in taking off a piece of silken thread, adroitly fastened on the back, and which held under the left wing a silken bag of some very thin material. In this bag she found a letter, written in almost imperceptible characters, on such thin paper that she feared to break it by a breath. At the first glance she saw it was a message from the dear unknown. It contained but these few words:--

"A great task has been confided to me, in the hope that the pleasure of doing it well would calm the uneasiness of my passion. Nothing, not even the exercise of my charity, can distract the soul of which you are the mistress. I accomplished my task in less time than you would think possible. I am back again, and love you more than ever. Our sky is growing brighter. I do not know what has passed between you and _them_, but they seem more favorable, and my love is no longer treated as a crime, but merely as a mischance--a misfortune. Ah! they do not know me! They know not that I cannot be unhappy with your love. But you do. Tell it to the red-throat of Spandau. It is the same. I brought it here in my bosom. May he repay me for all my trouble by bringing me a message from you. Gottlieb will deliver it faithfully to me, without looking at it."

Mysterious and romantic circumstances enflame the fire of love. Consuelo experienced the most violent temptation to reply. The fear of displeasing the Invisibles, the scruple of not violating her promises, had but little influence on her, we must own. When she thought that she might be discovered, and cause a new exile of the Chevalier, she had courage enough to resist. She released the red-throat, without one word in reply, but not without tears at the sorrow and disappointment her lover would experience at her having acted with such severity.

She sought to resume her studies, but neither study nor music appeared to dissipate the agitation which had boiled in her bosom, since she knew the Chevalier was near her. She could not refrain from hoping that he would disobey the Invisibles, and that she would see him some evening glide beneath the flowery bushes of the garden. She was unwilling to encourage him, however, to show himself. All the evening she was shut up, looking, with a beating heart, through the window, yet determined not to reply to his call. She did not see him appear, and exhibited as much grief and surprise as if she had relied on a temerity which she would have blamed, and which would have awakened all her terrors. All the little mysterious dramas of young and burning love were formed in her bosom in the course of a few hours. It was a new phase of emotions, unknown hitherto to her. She had often, at evening, waited for Anzoleto on the canals of Venice, or on the terraces of the _Corte Minelli_; yet when she did so, she thought over her morning's lesson, and repeated the rosary-prayers, to while away the time, without fear, trembling, or sorrow. This childish love was so closely united to friendship, that it bore no relation to what she now experienced for Leverani. On the next day she waited anxiously for the red-throat, which did not come. Had he been seized _en route_ by some stern Argus? Might not the fatigue of the silken girdle and heavy burden have prevented him from coming? His instinct, however, would teach him that Consuelo had on the evening before released him, and he would perhaps return to her, to receive the same service.

Consuelo wept all day long. She, who had no tears for great misfortunes, who had not shed one while she was a prisoner at Spandau, felt crushed and burned up by the sufferings of her love, and sought in vain for the strength which had sustained her in all the other evils of life.

One evening she forced herself to play on the piano, and while doing so, two black figures appeared at the door of the music room, without her having heard them ascend. She could not repress a cry of terror at the apparition of these spectres, but one of them, in a voice gentler than before, said, "Follow us." She got up in silence to obey them. They gave her a silken bandage, saying, "Cover your eyes, and swear that you will do so honestly. Swear also that if this bandage fall, or become deranged, that you will close your eyes until we bid you open them."

Consuelo said--"I swear."

"Your oath is accepted," said the guide. Consuelo was led, as before, into the cavern. Presently she was told to halt, and an unknown voice said:

"Remove the bandage yourself. Henceforth none will watch you, and you will have no guardian but your own word."

Consuelo found herself in an arched room, lighted by a single lamp hanging from the roof. A single judge, in a red cloak and livid mask, sat in an old arm-chair, by the side of a table. He was bowed with age, and a few grey locks escaped from his hood. His voice was broken and trembling. The aspect of age changed into respectful deference the fear Consuelo could not repress when she met one of the Invisibles.

"Listen to me," said he, as he bade her seat herself on a stool at some distance. "You are now before your confessor. I am the oldest of the council, and the quiet of my whole life has made my mind as chaste as that of the purest of Catholic priests. I do not lie. If you wish to reject me, however, you are at liberty to do so."

"I receive you," said Consuelo, "with this understanding, that my confession does not implicate that of another!"

"Vain scruple," said the old man. "A scholar does not reveal to a schoolmaster the fault of his comrade, yet a son hurries to tell a father where a brother has erred, because he is aware that the parent represses and corrects the fault, without chastising it. Such, at least, should be the law of every family which seeks to practise this idea. Have you any confidence?"

This question, which sounded not a little arbitrary in the mouth of a stranger, was uttered with such gentleness, and in such a sympathetic tone, that Consuelo, led astray, and moved, replied unhesitatingly, "I have entire confidence."

"Listen then," said the old man. "When you first appeared before us, you made use of the following expression, which we have remembered and weighed:--'It is a strange moral torture for a woman to confess herself before eight men.' Your modesty has been considered. You will confess yourself to me alone, and I will not betray your confidence. I have received full power, (and I am the highest of the council,) to direct you in an affair of a delicate nature, and which has not an indirect connection with your initiation. Will you answer me freely? Will you open your whole heart to me?"

"I will."

"I will not inquire into the past. You have been told that the past does not belong to us. But you have been warned to purify your soul from the moment which marked the commencement of your adoption. You must think of the difficulties and the consequences of this adoption. You are not accountable to me alone, but other things are at stake. Reply then."

"I am ready."

"One of my children loves you. During the last eight days, have you acknowledged or repelled his love?"

"I have repelled it in every manner."

"I know it. The least of your actions are known to us. I ask the secrets of your heart, not of your conduct."

Consuelo felt her cheeks glow and was silent.

"You think my question cruel. You must reply to it, notwithstanding. I wish to guess at nothing. I must know and record."

"Well, I do love," said Consuelo, yielding to the necessity of truth. Scarcely had she pronounced this word, than she shed tears. She had abandoned the virginity of her soul.

"Why do you weep?" said the confessor mildly. "Is it from shame or from repentance?"

"I do not know. I think it is not from repentance. I love too well for that."

"Whom do you love?"

"You know--not I."

"But if I do not? His name?"

"Leverani."

"That is the name of no one. It is common to all our members who choose to bear it. It is a false name, such as most of our brethren assume in their travels."

"I know him by no other name, and did not learn it from him."

"His age?"

"I did not ask him."

"His face?"

"I never saw it."

"How would you know him?"

"It seems to me I would recognise him by touching his hand."

"If your fate were based on such a test, and you failed?"

"It would be horrible."

"Shudder then at your imprudence, unfortunate child; you love madly."

"I know it."

"Do you not combat it in your heart?"

"I cannot."

"Wish you to do so?"

"I do not even wish to."

"Your heart is then free from all other affections?"

"Entirely."

"Are you a widow?"

"I think I am."

"And were you not?"

"I would combat my love, and I _would_ do my duty."

"With sorrow? with grief?"

"With despair, perhaps; yet I would do it."

"You did not then love your husband."

"I loved him as a brother. I did all I could to love him."

"And could not?"

"Now that I know what love is, I say No."

"Do not then suffer from remorse. Love cannot be forced. Do you think you love this Leverani? seriously? religiously? ardently?"

"So do I feel in my heart. Unless indeed he be unworthy."

"He is not unworthy."

"Indeed, my father!" said Consuelo, carried away by gratitude, and seeking to kneel before the old man.

"He is as worthy of intense love as Albert himself. You must, however, renounce him."

"It is I then who am unworthy?" said Consuelo sadly.

"You will be worthy, but you are not free. Albert of Rudolstadt is not dead."

"My God! pardon me," murmured Consuelo, falling on her knees, and hiding her face in her hands.

The confessor and penitent maintained a long and painful silence. Ere long Consuelo, remembering what Supperville had said, was struck with horror. This old man, whose appearance had filled her with veneration, could he lend himself to such an infernal plot? Did he betray the sensibility of the unfortunate Consuelo, and cast her into the arms of a base impostor? She looked up, pale with terror, with dry eyes and quivering lips. She attempted to pierce the impenetrable and unimpressionable mask, which, it may be, concealed the criminal's pallor, or the hellish sneer of a villain.

"Albert lives?" said she. "Are you very sure? Do you know there is a man like him, whom even I fancied was him?"

"I know all that absurd story," said the old man. "I know all Supperville's mad fancies, and all he has done to exculpate himself from the blunder he committed in suffering a man who was merely in a state of lethargy, to be buried. Two words will destroy all that scaffolding of madness. The first is, that Supperville was declared unworthy of the secondary degrees of the secret societies, the supreme direction of which is in our hands, and his wounded vanity and diseased curiosity could not bear this degradation. The second is, that Count Albert never thought or intended to resume his place and rank in the world. He could not do so without giving rise to scandalous discussions in relation to his identity, which he could not bear. He perhaps did not understand his true duties in thus deciding. He would have been able to make a better use of his fortune than his heirs. He thus deprived himself of one way of doing good, which Providence had granted him. Enough, though, remain. The voice of love was more powerful in inducing him to do this, than conscience. He remembered that you did not love him, for the very reason that he was rich and noble. He wished to abandon forever both name and rank. He did so, and we consented. He will never pretend to be your husband, for such he became from your pity and compassion. He will have courage to renounce you. We have no greater power over him you call Leverani, and over yourself, than persuasion. If you wish to fly together, we cannot help it. We have neither dungeons nor constraint--we neither have any corporeal penalties, though a faithful servitor, somewhat credulous, may have told you so; but we hate all means of tyranny: your lot is in your hands. Think again, poor Consuelo, and may heaven direct you."

Consuelo had listened to this discourse in a profound state of stupor. When the old man was done, she arose and said with energy:

"I need no thought. My choice is made. Albert is here! Lead me to him."

"Albert is not here. He could not be a witness of this strife. He is even ignorant of what you now undergo."

"Dear Albert," said Consuelo lifting her hands to heaven, "I will conquer." Then kneeling before the old man, she said, "Father, absolve me, and aid me never to see this Leverani again! I do not wish; I will not love hm!"

The old man placed his trembling hands above Consuelo's head. When he removed them she could not arise. She had repressed her tears in her bosom; and, crushed by a contest beyond her power, she was forced to use the confessor's arm as she left the oratory.