Chapter XXIX

At noon on the next day the red-throat came to tap with its bill and claws at Consuelo's window. Just as she was about to open it, she observed a black thread crossed over its yellow breast, and an involuntary effort induced her to place her hand on the sash. She withdrew it at once, however.

"Away," said she, "messenger of misfortune! away, poor innocent bearer of letters which are guilty and criminal! I shall not, perhaps, have courage to reply to a last farewell. Perhaps I should not suffer him to know that I regret and mourn for him."

She took refuge in the music-room, to escape from the tempting bird, which, used to a better reception hovered about, and angrily tapped at the window-sill. She sat at her piano to drown the cries and reproaches of her favorite, who had followed her to the window of the room, and she felt something like the anguish of a mother when she will not hear the cries and complaints of a penitent child. It was not because of the red-throat that Consuelo now suffered. The note under the bird's wing spoke most appealingly. This was the voice Which, to our romantic recluse, seemed to lament at not being heard.

She did not yield. It is, however, in the nature of love to become angry and return to the assault, becoming more imperious and triumphant after every victory. Without metaphor may it be said, that to resist is to supply him with new arms. About three o'clock Matteus came in with a basket of flowers, which he brought his prisoner every day, (he loved her kind and gentle deportment), and as usual she unbound them to arrange them herself in the beautiful vase on the _console._ This was one of her prison pleasures. On this occasion, however, she was less awake to it, and attended to it mechanically, as if to kill time. In untying a bundle of narcissi which was in the centre of the package of perfumes, a letter without any direction fell out. In vain did she seek to persuade herself that it came from the tribunal of the Invisibles. Would Matteus in such a case have been its bearer? Unfortunately Matteus was not by to give any explanations. It was necessary to ring for him. Five minutes would be necessary ere he could return, and it might be ten. Consuelo had exhibited too much courage towards the red-throat to be able to resist the bouquet. The letter was being read when Matteus returned. Consuelo had reached the postscript:--

"Do not question Matteus; for he is ignorant of the disobedience I make him commit."

Matteus was merely asked to wind up the clock, which had stopped.

The Chevalier's letter was more passionate, more impetuous, than the others. In its delirium it was even imperious. We will not copy it. Love-letters are powerless, except to the persons to whom they are directed. In themselves they are all alike. All who are in love find, in the object of their attraction, an irresistible power and incomparable novelty. No one fancies he is loved as another is, or in the same manner. All fancy themselves most loved of any who live. Where this strange blindness, this proud fascination, does not exist, there is no passion. Passion had seized on the calm, quiet, and noble mind of Consuelo.

The Chevalier's note disturbed all her ideas. He implored an interview, and urged the necessity of using the few moments which remained. He feigned to believe Consuelo had loved Albert, and that she yet loved him. He pretended to be willing to submit to her decree, and in the interim asked only a moment of pity, a tear of regret. This "_last_ appearance" of a great _artiste_ is always followed by many others.

Consuelo, though sad, was yet devoured by a secret joy, burning and involuntary, at the idea of an interview. She felt her forehead blush and her bosom palpitate, for she knew that in spite of herself she had committed adultery. She saw that her resolution and her will did not protect her from an inconceivable influence, and that if the Chevalier resolved to break his vow, by speaking to her and showing his features, as he seemed determined to do, she would not be able to prevent this violation of the laws of the invisible tribunal. She had but one refuge--to implore the tribunal's aid. But could she accuse and betray Leverani? Would the worthy old man who had revealed Albert's existence, and paternally received her confessions on the previous evening, receive this also under the seal of confession. He would pity the Chevalier's madness, and would condemn him only in the silence of his heart. Consuelo wrote that she wished to see him at nine in the evening of that day, and enjoined him on his honor, his repose and peace of mind to meet her. This was the hour at which the stranger said he would come. But by whom could she send this letter? Matteus would not go a foot out of the enclosure before midnight; such were his orders, he had been severely reprimanded for not having always punctually obeyed his orders in relation to the prisoner. Henceforth he would be inflexible.

The hour drew near, and Consuelo, though she sought in every way to avoid the fatal test, had not thought of any means of resisting it. Compulsory female virtue will ever be but a mere name unless half of the stain of its violation rests on the man! Every plan of defence becomes a mere subterfuge: every immolation of personal happiness fails, when opposed to the fear of reducing the object of affection to despair. Consuelo resolved on one resource, a suggestion of the heroism and weakness which divided her heart. She began to look for the mysterious opening of the cavern which was in the house, resolving to hurry through it, and at any risk to present herself before the Invisibles. She had fancied, gratuitously enough, that their place of meeting was accessible when she had once discovered the mouth of the passage, and that they met every night at the same place. She was not aware that on that day they were all absent, and that Leverani alone had returned, after having pretended to accompany them on their mysterious excursion.

All her efforts to discover the secret door or trap were useless. She had not now as at Spandau, the _sang froid_, the perseverance necessary to discover the smallest fissure in the wall, the least protruding stone. Her hands trembled as she examined the paneling and hangings, and her sight became disturbed. Every moment she seemed to hear the sound of the step of the Chevalier on the garden walks, or on the marble portico.

All at once, she fancied she heard them beneath her, as if they ascended some secret stairway or approached to some invisible door, or as if, like familiar spirits, they were about to rush through the wall before her. She let her light fall, and fled into the garden. The rivulet caused her to cease her flight. She listened to footsteps, which she fancied she heard behind her. She then became somewhat amazed, and got into the boat which the gardener had for bringing sand and turf from the forest. Consuelo fancied that when she loosed it she would gain the opposite bank; but the current was very rapid, and passed out of the enclosure through a grated arch. Borne off by the current, the boat in a few moments would have knocked against the grating. To avoid the shock, she put forth her hands--for a native of Venice and a child of its people could not be at any difficulty in relation to such a manœuvre. By a strange chance, however, the grating yielded to her hands, and swang open, in obedience to the impulse the boat received from the current. "Alas!" thought Consuelo, "they never shut this passage, perhaps: I am but a prisoner on parole, and yet I fly and violate my word. I do so, however, only to seek protection from my hosts, not to abandon and betray them!"

She sprang on shore at a turn of the current whither the boat had been driven, and rushed into a thick hedge. Consuelo could not proceed rapidly through the undergrowth. The alley wound about, and the fugitive every moment knocked against the trees, and frequently fell on the turf. Yet she felt a return of hope to her soul: she thought it impossible for Leverani to discover her.

After having wandered a long time at hazard, she found herself at the foot of a hill, strewn with rocks, the varied outline of which was painted on a grey and clouded sky. A storm-wind of some power, had arisen, and the rain began to fall. Consuelo, not daring to return, for fear that Leverani had followed, and might look for her on the banks of the stream, ventured on the rude hill-side path. She thought that when she had reached the top, she would discover the lights of the castle and ascertain her position. When she had arrived, however, in the darkness, the lightning, which began to illumine the heavens, showed her the ruin of a vast building, which seemed the imposing and melancholy monument of another age.

The rain forced Consuelo to seek shelter, and with difficulty she found it. The towers were roofless, and flocks of ger-falcons and tiercelets were terrified at her approach, and uttered a sharp and acute cry, which sounded like that of the spirits of evil inhabiting some old ruin.

Amid the stones and ivy, Consuelo went through the chapel, which, by the lightning, exhibited the outline of its dislocated mouldings, and went into the court-yard which was overgrown with short smooth grass. She avoided by chance a deep well, the presence of which on the surface was only indicated by superb capillary plants, and a rose-tree which were in undisturbed possession of the interior. The mass of ruined buildings around this courtyard presented the strangest aspect. At every flash, the eye could scarcely take in these pale and downcast spectres; all these incoherent forms of ruin, vast stacks of chimneys, the summits of which were blackened by fires long extinct forever, and springing from amid walls which were bare and terribly high; broken stairways, showing their helices, into the void, as if to enable witches to go to their aerial dance; whole trees installed and in possession of rooms, on the walls of which frescoes were yet visible; stone benches in the deep window recesses, desertedness within and without these mysterious retreats, refuges of lovers in times of peace and the sentinels' station during war; finally, loop-holes, festooned with coquettish garlands, isolated spires, piercing the skies like obelisks, and doors completely crushed by the falling ruins. It was a fearful and poetical spot, and Consuelo felt herself under the influence of a kind of terror, as if her presence had profaned a space reserved for the funeral conferences and silent reveries of the dead. In a calm night, and when less agitated, she would not, perhaps, have so pitied the rigor of time and the fates which so violently destroy palace and fortress, leaving their ruins on the grass by the side of those of the hut. The sadness which is inspired by the ruins of these formidable abodes rise not identical in the imagination of the artist and the patrician. At this moment of terror and fear, however, and on this stormy night, Consuelo, unsustained by the enthusiasm which had impelled her in more serious undertakings, felt herself again become a child of the people, and trembled at the idea of seeing again appear the phantoms of night, especially the old lords, the stern occupants of them, while alive, and, after death, their threatening and menacing possessors. The thunder lifted up its voice; the wind made the bricks crumble and the cement fall from the dismantled pile, while the long branches of the ivy twined like serpents around the embrasures of the towers. Consuelo, who was looking for a shelter from the fierce tempest, went beneath the vault of a stairway which seemed in better preservation than the others. It was that of a vast feudal tower, the most ancient and solid of the edifice. After about twenty steps, she came to a broad octagonal hall which occupied all the interior of the tower. The opposite stairway having been made, as is the case with all constructions of this kind, in the thickness (eighteen or twenty feet) of the wall. The vault of this hall was like the interior of a hive. There were now neither doors nor windows, but the openings were so narrow that the wind easily lost its power in passing through them. Consuelo resolved to wait in this place until the tempest was over, and approaching a window, stood for more than an hour, contemplating the grand spectacle of a sky in flames, and listening to the terrible voices of the storm.

The wind at last lulled, the clouds became dissipated, and Consuelo thought she would go. On her return, however, she was amazed to find a more permanent light than that of day occupy the interior of the room. This clearness, after a season of, as it were, tremulous light, increased and filled the vault, and a light crackling sound was heard in the hearth. Consuelo looked and saw beneath the half-arch of this old hall, an enormous recess open before her, and a wood-fire which seemed to have kindled itself and burned out alone. She approached, and saw half-burned branches and all that indicated a fire having been kept up, and abandoned without precaution.

Terrified at this circumstance, which informed her of the presence of a host, Consuelo, who saw no trace of furniture here, hurried towards the stairway, and was about to descend, when she heard voices and the sound of feet on the pavement below. Her fantastic terrors then became real apprehensions. This damp and devastated tower could only be inhabited by some gamekeeper, perhaps as savage as his abode--it may be, drunk and brutal--and probably by no means so honest and respectful as the good Matteus. The steps rapidly approached, and Consuelo hurried up the stairway, to avoid being met by those who might come. After having gone about twenty steps, she found herself on the second floor, from the one where they would be apt to come, since, being roofless, it was uninhabitable. Fortunately the rain had ceased, and she saw a few stars through the climbing shrubs, which had covered the top of the tower, about ten _toises_ above her head. A ray of light from below soon began to trace shadows on the walls of the ruin, and Consuelo, approaching stealthily, looked through a crevice into the room she had just left. Two men were in the hall: one walking and stamping his feet to warm them, and the other leaning down in the fireplace, attempting to rekindle the fire which began to burn. At first, she did not see that their apparel betokened exalted rank; but the light of the fire being revived, he who heaped it up with the point of his sword, got up to lean the weapon against a salient stone. Consuelo saw long black hair, at the appearance of which she trembled, and a brow which had nearly wrung a cry of terror and tenderness from her. He spoke, and she had no doubt the person she saw was Albert of Rudolstadt.

"Draw near, my friend," said he to his companion, "and warm yourself at the only fireplace of this old castle. A bad state of things, Von Trenck; but you have, in your wanderings, found matter worse."

"Sometimes," answered the lover of the Princess Amelia, "I have found nothing at all. This place is really more comfortable than it seems, and I will be glad to make more of it. Ah! count, you then come sometimes to muse in these ruins and _watch your arms_[13] in this haunted tower."

"I often come for better reasons. I cannot now tell you why, but will hereafter."

"I can guess then. From the top of this tower you can look into a certain park and over a certain pavilion."

"No, Trenck; the house you speak of is behind those woods and that hill, and cannot be seen from here."

"But you can go thither from this place in a few moments, and can again take refuge here if troublesome people watch you. Well, now, acknowledge that just as I met you in the room, you were----"

"I can acknowledge nothing, dear Trenck, and you promised not to question me."

"True, I should think of nothing except of rejoicing at having found you in this immense park, or rather forest, where I had lost my way, and but for you must have thrown myself into some picturesque ravine, or been drowned in some limpid stream. Are we far from the castle?"

"More than a quarter of a league."

"The old castle does not please me as well as the new one, I confess, and can see well enough why they yield it up to the bats. I am glad, however, I find myself alone with you at such a mournful time and hour. It reminds me of our first meeting amid the ruins of an abbey in Silesia--my initiation--the oaths I took with my hands in yours, for then you were my judge, my examiner, my master, but now are my brother and my friend. Dear Albert! what strange and miserable vicissitudes have passed over our heads since that day! Both dead to our families, our countries, our loves, perhaps. What will become of us? and what henceforth will be our life among men?"

"Yours may yet be surrounded by _éclat_ and intoxication. The dominions of the tyrant who hates you, thank God, do not cover all the soil of Europe."

"But my mistress, Albert? Will she be always faithful to me--eternally but uselessly faithful?"

"You should not desire it, my friend; but it is certain that her passion will be durable as her sorrow."

"Speak to me of her, Albert, you are more blest than myself, for you are able to see and hear her."

"I can do so no more, dear Trenck. Do not deceive yourself in that matter. The fantastic name and strange character of the person called Trismegistus, with whom I was confounded, and which protected me so long in my brief and mysterious visits to Berlin, have lost their _prestige_; my friends will be discreet, and my dupes (for to aid our cause, and your love, it became necessary to make such) will be more shrewd in future. Frederick scented a conspiracy, and I cannot return to Prussia. My efforts will be paralysed by his distrust, and the prison of Spandau will never open again to let me pass."

"Poor Albert! You must have suffered as much in prison as I did. Perhaps more?"

"No, I was near her, and heard her voice. I toiled for her delivery. I regret neither that I endured the horror of a dungeon, nor that I despaired for her life. If I have suffered on my own account, I did not perceive it. She has escaped, and will be happy."

"By your means, Albert! Tell me that she will be happy with and through you only, or I esteem her no more. I withdraw from her my respect and my admiration."

"Do not speak thus, Trenck. To do so is to outrage nature, love, and heaven. Our wives are as free of obligation to us as our mistresses. To bind them in the chains of duty agreeable only to our own feelings, is a crime and a profanation."

"I know it; and without arrogating to myself your lofty feelings, I am aware, had Amelia withdrawn her promise instead of renewing it, I feel I would not on that account cease to love and thank her for the days of happiness she has conferred on me; but it is permitted to me to be more anxious on your account than on my own, and to hate all who do not love you. You smile, Albert, for you do not comprehend my love, nor do I understand your courage. If it be true that she you love has become a victim (before her weeds should have been laid aside) of one of _our brothers_, were he the most deserving of them and the most fascinating man in the world, I could never pardon her. If you can do so, you are more than mortal."

"Trenck, Trenck, you know not what you say. You do not understand, and I cannot explain. Do not judge that admirable woman yet. By-and-bye, you will know her."

"Why not justify her to my mind? Why this mystery? We are alone here. Your confessions will not compromise her, and I am aware of no oath which binds you to hide from me things that we all suspect. She loves you not? What is her excuse?"

"She never loved me."

"That is her offence. She did not understand you."

"She could not, and I was unable to reveal myself to her. Besides, I was sick and mad. No one loves a madman. They are to be pitied and feared."

"Albert, you were never a madman. I never saw you crazed. The wisdom and power of your mind dazzled me."

"You saw me firm and self-possessed while in action. You never saw me in the agony of repose, or in the tortures of discouragement."

"You know, then, what it is to feel so. I did not think so."

"The reason is, you do not see all the dangers, obstacles, and vices of our enterprise. You have never sounded the abyss into which I plunged all my soul, and cast all my existence. You have looked at its chivalric and generous side; you have seen but easy looks and smiling hopes."

"The reason, count, is that I am less great, less enthusiastic than yourself. You drained the cup of zeal to the very dregs; and when its bitterness suffocated you, suspicions of man and heaven arose."

"Yes; and I have suffered cruelly on that account."

"And do you doubt yet--do you still suffer?"

"Now I hope, believe, and act. I am strong and happy. Do you not see joy enkindle my brow? Do you not see my very heart is intoxicated?"

"Yet you have been betrayed by your mistress? What do I say? by your wife."

"She was never either one or the other. She owes me no duty. God has vouchsafed her his love--the most celestial of his boons--as her reward for having pitied me for a moment on my death-bed. Shall I still hold her to a promise wrested from her generous compassion and sublime charity? Should I do so, I would then say, 'Woman, I am your master. You are mine by law, by your own imprudence and error. You shall tolerate my embraces, because once on our parting day you kissed my icy brow. You shall place your hand in mine forever, walk my way, bear my yoke, crush the young love in your bosom, trample down irrepressible desires, and consume in sorrow, in my profane arms, on my selfish and cowardly heart.' Oh! Trenck, think you I could be happy did I act thus? Would not my life be a bitterer torment than her own? The suffering of the slave would be the master's curse. Great God! what being is so degraded, so brutal, as to become proud and intoxicated with a love which is not mutual, with a fidelity against which the heart of the victim revolts? I thank heaven that such I am not and cannot be. I was going this evening to see Consuelo, and tell her all this, and restore her to liberty. I did not meet her in the garden where she usually walks, and then this storm came and stripped me of the hope of seeing her. I did not wish to visit her rooms. I would then have used my rights as a husband. The quivering of her terror, the very pallor of her despair, would have done me an injury I cannot bear."

"And have you not also met in the dark Leverani's black mask?"

"Who is Leverani?"

"Are you ignorant of your master's name?"

"Leverani is an assumed name. Do you not know this man, my happy rival?"

"No; but you ask this in a strange manner. Albert, I think I understand you. You pardon your unfortunate wife. You abandon her, as you should do. You should, however, chastise her base seducer."

"Are you sure he is base?"

"What! the man to whom the care of her rescue, and the keeping of her person during a long and dangerous journey was confided--the man who should protect and respect her, who should not speak to her or show her his face--a man invested with the power and blind confidence of the Invisibles--your brother in arms and oath, as I am? Ah! had that woman been confided to me, I would not have dreamed of the base treachery of winning her love."

"Once more, Trenck, you know not what you say. Only three of us know this Leverani and his crime. In a few days you will cease to blame this happy mortal, to whom God in his goodness has vouchsafed Consuelo's love."

"Strange and sublime man! do you not hate him?"

"I cannot do so."

"You will not interfere with his happiness?"

"I toil ardently to secure it, and there is nothing strange or sublime in this. You will ere long smile at the praises you give me."

"What! do you not even suffer?"

"I am the happiest of men."

"Then you either love her little or love her much. Such heroism is not in human nature. It is almost monstrous, and I cannot admire what I cannot comprehend. Listen, count. You laugh at me and I am very simple. I have guessed all, though. You love another woman, and thank Providence for having delivered you from all obligation to Consuelo, by making her unfaithful."

"I must than, open my heart, baron, to you, for you force me to do so. Listen: this is my story--a whole romance. But it is cold here, and this brush fire is insufficient to warm these old walls, which, I am afraid, remind you of those of Glatz. It has become clear, and we can find our way to the castle. Since you go at dawn, I will not detain you up longer. As we walk I will tell you a strange story."

The two friends resumed their hats, after having shaken off the rain. Trampling on the brands, to put them out, they left the tower arm in arm. Their voices soon became lost in the distance, and the echoes of the old mansion soon ceased to repeat the feeble noise of their steps on the damp grass of the court.

[Footnote 13: "Faire la veillée des armes." The watch of a knight's armor on the night before he was dubbed.]