Chapter XXXII

At dawn, Consuelo was awakened by the sounds of the horn and the barking of dogs. When Matteus came to bring her breakfast, he told her there had been a great _battue_ of deer and wild boar in the forest. "More than a hundred guests," he said, "had assembled at the castle, to participate in this lordly amusement." Consuelo understood that a large number of her sons, affiliated with the order, had assembled under the pretext of the chase, in this castle, which was the principal rendezvous of the most important of the meetings of the Invisibles. She was not a little shocked that perhaps all these men would be witnesses of her initiation, and asked if it could really be so interesting an affair to the order as to attract so great a crowd of its members. She made an effort to meditate, for the purpose of abiding by the directions of the initiator: her attention, however, was distracted by an internal emotion, and by vague fears, by _fanfares_, the gallop of horses, and the baying of bloodhounds through the woods all day long. Was this _battue_ real or imaginary? Was Albert converted so completely to all the habits of ordinary life, as to participate in such a sport, and shed the blood of innocent beasts? Would not Leverani leave this pleasure party, and, taking advantage of the disorder, molest the neophyte in the privacy of her retreat?

Consuelo saw nothing that passed out of doors, and Leverani did not come. Matteus, too much occupied, beyond doubt, at the castle to think of her, brought her no dinner. Was this, as Supperville said, a fast carefully imposed, a fast intended to weaken the mental powers of the adept?

Towards night, when she returned to the library, whence she had gone an hour before to take the air, she shrank with terror at the sight of a man, red and masked, sitting in her chair. Soon, however, she regained her presence of mind, for she recognized the frail old man who was her spiritual father. "My child," said he, rising and coming to meet her, "have you nothing to say to me? Have I yet your confidence?"

"You have, sir," said Consuelo, making him sit on the chair, and taking a folding chair in the embrasure of the window; "I have long wished to speak to you."

Then she told faithfully all that had passed between her, Albert, and the stranger, since their last interview. She concealed none of the involuntary emotions she had experienced.

When she was done, the old man was silent long enough to trouble and annoy Consuelo. Persuaded by her, at last, to judge her conduct and sentiments, he said, "Your conduct is irreproachable: what, though, can I say of your sentiments? That sudden, insurmountable, violent affection called love, is a consequence of the good and bad instincts which God has permitted to penetrate or placed in our souls for our perfection or punishment. Bad human laws--which always oppose, in all things, the will of nature and the designs of Providence--often make an inspiration of God a crime, and curse the sentiment he has blessed, while they sanction infamous unions and base instincts. It is for us legislators--excepted from common-place laws, hidden constructors of a new society--to distinguish as much as possible legitimate and true love from a vain and guilty passion, that we may pronounce in the name of a purer and more generous law than that of the world, on the fate you merit. Will you be willing to commit it to our decision? Will you grant us the power to bind and loose?"

"You inspire me with absolute confidence; I have told you so, and I now repeat it."

"Well, Consuelo, we will discuss and deliberate on this question of the life and death of your love and that of Albert."

"And shall I not have a right to listen to the appeal of my conscience?"

"Yes, to enlighten us; when I have heard all, I will be your advocate. You must, however, relieve me of the seal of the confessional."

"What! you would not be the only confidant of my innocent sentiments, my agonies, my sufferings?"

"If you drew up a petition for divorce, and presented it to the tribunal, would you have no public complaints to make? This suffering will be spared to you. You have no complaints to make of any one? Is it not more pleasant to avow love than hatred?"

"Is it enough to feel a new passion, to have the right to abjure an old one?"

"You did not love Albert."

"It seems I did not: yet, I would not swear so."

"You would have no doubt, had you loved him. Besides, the question you ask carries a reply in itself. The new love, from the necessity of things, excludes the old."

"Do not decide too quickly on that, my father," said Consuelo, with a sad smile. "Although I love Albert differently from the other, I do not love him less than I used to do; who knows if I do not love him more? I feel ready to sacrifice this unknown man to him, though the thought of the latter deprives me of sleep, and makes my heart beat at the very moment I speak to you."

"Is it not the pride of duty, rather a self-devotion than love for Albert, which makes you thus prefer him?"

"I do not think so."

"Are you sure? Remember, here you are far from the world, sheltered from its opinions, and protected from its laws. Should we give you a new rule of life and new ideas of duty, would you persist in preferring the happiness of a man you do not love to one whom you do?"

"Have I ever told you that I do not love Albert?" said Consuelo, eagerly.

"I can answer this question only by another, my daughter--can two loves exist at once?"

"Yes; two different loves. One may love a brother and a husband."

"Yet not a husband and a lover. The rights of a brother and lover are different. Those of a husband and lover are identical; unless, indeed, the husband consent to become a brother. In that case, the law of marriage would be violated in its most mysterious, intimate, and sacred relation. It would be a divorce, except that it would not be public. Reply to me, Consuelo: I am an old man, on the brink of the tomb, and you are a child. I am here as your parent and confessor. I cannot offend your modesty by this delicate question, to which I hope you will reply boldly. In the enthusiastic friendship which Albert inspired, was there not always a secret and insurmountable terror at the idea of his caresses?"

"There was," said Consuelo, with a blush. "Usually this idea was not mingled with that of his love, to which it seemed strange: when it did arise, however, a deathly chill passed through my veins."

"And the breath of the man you call Leverani inspired you with new life?"

"That, too, is true. Should not such instincts be stifled by our will?"

"Why? Has God suggested them for nothing? Has he authorised you to abjure your sex, and to pronounce in marriage either the vestal vow or the more degrading asseveration of slavery. The passiveness of slavery has something like the coldness and degradation of prostitution. Did God intend any being should be so degraded? Woe to the children sprung from such unions! God inflicts some disgrace on them; their organization is either incomplete, or they are delirious or stupid. They do not belong altogether to humanity, not having been begotten according to that law of humanity which requires reciprocity of ardor and a community of feeling between man and woman. Where that reciprocity is not, there is no equality; where equality is crushed, there is no real union. Be sure, then, that God, far from commanding your sex to make such sacrifices, forbids and refuses them the right to make them. Such a suicide is base, and far more cowardly than the renunciation of life. The vow of continence is inhuman and anti-social, but continence with love is monstrous. Deflect, Consuelo, and if you persist in thus annihilating yourself, think on the part you assign your husband, should he adopt it without understanding your submission. Unless he be deceived, I can assure you he will never receive you: deceived, however, by your devotion, intoxicated by your generosity, would he not seem to you either strangely selfish or egotistical? Would you not degrade him in your eyes, as you really would in the presence of God, by thus ensnaring his candor and making it almost impossible for him not to succumb? Where would his grandeur and delicacy be, did he not read the pallor of your lips and the tears in your eyes? Can you flatter yourself that hatred would not enter your heart in spite of yourself, mingled with shame and regret at not having been understood or comprehended? No: woman, you have no right to deceive the love in your bosom; you would rather have a right to suppress it. Whatever cynics and philosophers say in relation to the passive condition of the feminine sex in the order of nature, what always will distinguish man from brutes, will be discernment in love and the right to choose. Vanity and cupidity makes the majority of marriages _sworn prostitution_, as the old Lollards called it. Devotion and generosity alone can guide the heart to such results. Virgin, it has been my duty to instruct you in delicate matters, which the purity of your life prevented you from foreseeing or analysing. When a mother marries her daughter, she reveals to her a portion of what she has hitherto concealed, with more or less prudence and wisdom. You had no mother when you pronounced, with an enthusiasm which was rather fanatical than human, an oath to belong to a man whom you loved in an incomplete manner. A mother--given you to-day to assist and enlighten you in your new relations at the hour of the divorce or definitive sanction of this strange marriage--this mother, Consuelo, is myself; for I am not a man but a woman."

"You a woman!" said Consuelo, looking with surprise at the thin and blue, but delicate and really feminine hand which during this discourse had taken possession of hers.

"This pale and broken old man," said the strange confessor, "this suffering old being (whose stifled voice no longer indicated her sex) is a woman overpowered by grief, disease, and anxiety rather than by age. I am not more than sixty, Consuelo, though in this dress, which I wear only as an Invisible, I seem an ill-tempered octogenarian. In other particulars, as in this, I am but a ruin; yet I was a tall, healthy-looking, beautiful and an imposing woman. At thirty I was already bent, and trembling as you see me. Would you know, my child, the cause of this decay? It was a misfortune, from which I wish to preserve you--an incomplete love, an unfortunate attachment, a terrible effort of courage and resignation, which for ten years bound me to a man I esteemed, but could not love. A man would not have been able to tell you what are the sacred rights and true duties of a woman in love. They made their laws and ideas without consulting us. I have, however, often enlightened the minds of my associates in this particular, and they have had the courage and nerve to hear me. Believe me, I was aware if they did not place themselves in direct contact with you, they would not have the key to your heart, and would perhaps condemn you to complete degradation, to endless suffering, whilst your virtue looked for happiness. Now, open your heart to me, Consuelo. Do you love Leverani?"

"Alas! I love him. The fact is but too true," said Consuelo, placing the hand of the mysterious sybil on her lip. "His presence terrifies me more than Albert's did. This terror, however, is mixed with strange pleasures. His arms are a magnet which attracts me to him; and when his lips press my brow, I am transported to another world, where I live and breathe differently from here."

"Well, Consuelo, you must love this man, and forget Albert. Now I pronounce the divorce: it is my duty and my right to do so."

"Whatsoever you may say, I cannot submit to this sentence until I have seen Albert--until he has spoken to and renounced me without regret--until he relieves me from my promise without contempt."

"Either you do not know Albert, or you fear him. I know him, and have a stronger claim on him than on yourself, and can speak in his name. We are alone, Consuelo, and I can open my heart to you, that not being forbidden. Although I belong to the supreme council of the Invisibles, their nearest disciples shall never know me. My situation and yours are, however, peculiar. Look at my withered face, and see if my features are not familiar to you."

As she spoke the sibyl took off her mask and false hair, and revealed to Consuelo a female head, old and marked with suffering, it is true, but with incomparable beauty of outline, and a sublime expression of goodness, sadness, and power. These three so different habits of mind, and which are rarely united in the same person, were marked on the broad brow, in the maternal smile, the profound glance of the sibyl. The shape of her head and the lower part of her face announced great natural power, but the ravages of disease were too visible, and a kind of nervousness made her head tremble in a manner that recalled a dying Niobe, or rather Mary at the foot of the cross. Grey hair, fine and glossy as floss silk, was parted across her brow, and, bound in small folds around her temple, strangely completed her noble and striking appearance. At this epoch all women wore powder, with their curls gathered up behind, exhibiting their full foreheads. The sibyl had her hair braided in a less careful manner, to facilitate her disguise, not being aware that she adopted the one most in harmony with the cast and expression of her face. Consuelo looked for a long time at her with respect and admiration. At length, however, under the influence of great surprise, she cried out, seizing the sibyl's hands--

"My God! How much you resemble him!"

"Yes, I do resemble Albert; or, rather, he resembles me very much," replied she. "Have you never seen my portrait?"

Seeing Consuelo make an effort of memory, she said, to assist her--

"A portrait which was as much like me as it is possible for art to resemble nature, and of which I am now a mere shadow. A full portrait of a woman in young, fresh, and brilliant beauty, with a corsage of gold brocade covered with flowers and gems, a purple cloak, and black hair with knots of pearls and ribbons to keep the tresses from the shoulders. Thus was I dressed forty years ago on my wedding-day. I was beautiful, but could not long remain so, for death had made my heart its own."

"The portrait of which you speak," said Consuelo, "is at the Giants' Castle, in Albert's room. It is the portrait of his mother, whom he did not remember distinctly, but whom he yet adored, and in his ecstasies fancied he yet saw and heard. Can, you be a near relation to the noble Wanda, of Prachalitz, and consequently----"

"I _am_ Wanda of Prachalitz!" said the sibyl regaining something of the firmness of her voice and attitude. "I am Albert's mother! I am the widow of Christian of Rudolstadt--the descendant of John Ziska de _Calice_, and the mother-in-law of Consuelo! I wish to be merely her adoptive mother, for she does not love Albert, and he must not be happy at the expense of his wife."

"His mother! His mother!" said Consuelo, falling at Wanda's knees. "Are you not a spectre? Were you not mourned for at the Giants' Castle as if you were dead?"

"Twenty years ago, Wanda of Prachalitz, Countess of Rudolstadt, was buried in the chapel of the Giants' Castle, beneath the pavement; and Albert, subject to similar cataleptic crises, was attacked by the same disease, and buried there last year, a victim of the same mistake. The son would never have left this frightful tomb, if the mother, attentive to the dangers which menaced him, had not watched his agony unseen, and taken care to disinter him. His mother saved him, full of life, from the worms of the sepulchre, to which he had been abandoned. His mother wrested him from the yoke of the world in which he had lived too long, and in which he could not exist, to bear him to an impenetrable asylum in which he has recovered, if not the health of his body, at least that of his soul. This is a strange story, Consuelo, which you must hear, in order to understand, concerning Albert, his strange life, his pretended death, and his wonderful resurrection! The Invisibles will not initiate you until midnight. Listen to me, and may the emotions arising from this strange story prepare you for those excitements which yet await you!"