CHAPTER LIX

"DEAR SIGNORA," said the old count, "pardon me for not having more courteously received your brother. I had forbidden them to interrupt me, as I had some important business to transact this morning, and they obeyed my directions too faithfully in thus leaving me in ignorance of the arrival of a guest so welcome to me and all my family. Be assured, sir," added he, turning to Anzoleto, "that I am happy to see in my house so near a relative of our beloved Porporina. I trust, therefore, that you will remain here as long as may be agreeable to you. I presume that after so long a separation you must have much to say to each other, and I hope you will not hesitate to enjoy at leisure a happiness in which I sincerely sympathize."

Contrary to his usual custom, Count Christian spoke to a stranger with ease. His timidity had long since disappeared toward the gentle Consuelo, and on this day a vivid ray of joy seemed to illumine his countenance, like those which the sun sheds before sinking beneath the horizon. Anzoleto was confused in the presence of that majesty which rectitude and serenity of soul reflect upon the brow of an aged and venerable man. He was well skilled to bow low before the nobles of his native land, but in his inmost soul he hated and mocked them. He had found only too much to despise in them, and in the fashionable world in which he had for some time lived. He had never before seen dignity so lofty, and politeness so cordial, as those of the old chatelain of Riesenburg. He stammered forth his thanks, and almost repented having procured by an imposition, the kind and fatherly reception with which he was greeted. He feared above all lest Consuelo should unmask him, by declaring to the count that he was not her brother, and he felt that he could not at this moment repay her with impertinence, and study his revenge.

"I feel much gratified by your lordship's goodness," replied Consuelo, after an instant's reflection; "but my brother, who is deeply sensible of its value, cannot have the happiness of profiting by it. Pressing business calls him to Prague, and he has just this moment taken leave of me."

"Impossible! you have hardly seen each other an instant," said the count.

"He has lost several hours in waiting for me," replied she, "and his moments are now counted. He knows very well," added she, looking at her pretended brother with a significant expression, "that he cannot remain here a minute longer."

This cold determination restored to Anzoleto all his hardihood and effrontery. "Let what will happen," said he, "I take the devil—I mean God," he added, recovering himself—"to witness, that I will not leave my dear sister so hastily as her reason and prudence require. I know of no business that is worth an instant of such happiness; and since my lord the count so generously permits me, I accept his invitation with gratitude. I shall remain, therefore, and my engagements at Prague must be fulfilled a little later, that is all."

"That is speaking like a thoughtless young man," returned Consuelo, offended. "There are some affairs in which honor calls more loudly than interest."

"It is speaking like a brother," replied Anzoleto, "but you always speak so like a queen, my good little sister."

"It is spoken like a good young man!" added the old count, holding out his hand to Anzoleto. "I know of no business which cannot be put off till the morrow. It is true that I have always been reproached for my indolence; but I have invariably found that more is lost by hastiness than by reflection. For example, my dear Porporina, it is now several days, I might say weeks, since I have had a request to make of you, and I have delayed it until now. I believe I have done well, and that the proper moment has arrived. Can you grant me today the hour's conversation I was just about to request when I was informed of your brother's arrival? It seems to me that this happy circumstance has occurred quite apropos, and perhaps he would not be out place in the conference I propose."

"I am always, and at all hours, at your lordship's command," answered Consuelo. "As to my brother, he is yet a mere child, and I do not usually entrust him with my private affairs."

"I know that very well," returned Anzoleto, impudently; "but as my lord count authorizes me, I do not require any other permission than his to join in your conference."

"You will permit me to judge of what is proper for you and for myself," replied Consuelo, haughtily. "My lord count, I am ready to follow you to your apartment, and to listen to you with respect."

"You are very severe with this young man, who has so frank and cheerful an air," said the count, smiling; then turning toward Anzoleto: "Do not be impatient, my child," said he, "your turn will come. What I have to say to your sister cannot be concealed from you, and soon, I hope, she will permit me to confide it to you."

Anzoleto had the impertinence to reply to the unsuspecting gaiety of the old man, by retaining his hand in his own, as if he wished to attach himself to him, and discover the secret from which Consuelo excluded him. He had not the good taste to perceive that he ought at least to have left the saloon, in order to spare him the necessity of doing so. When he found himself alone, he stamped with anger, fearing lest this young girl, now so collected and self-possessed, should disconcert all his plans, and cause him to be dismissed in spite of his address. He longed to glide steathily through the house, and listen at all the doors. He left the saloon with this purpose, wandered in the gardens for a few moments, then ventured into the galleries, pretending, whenever he met a domestic, to be admiring the beautiful architecture of the château. But at three different times he saw passing, at some distance, a personage dressed in black, and singularly grave, whose attention he was not very desirous of attracting. It was Albert, who appeared not to remark him, and yet who never lost sight of him. Anzoleto, seeing that he was a full head taller than himself, and observing the serious beauty of his features, perceived plainly that he had not so despicable a rival as he had at first thought, in the person of the madman of Riesenburg. He therefore decided to return to the saloon, and commenced trying his fine voice in the lofty apartment, as he passed his fingers absently over the keys of the harpsichord.

"My daughter," said Count Christian to Consuelo, after having led her to his study, and placed a large arm-chair for her, covered with red velvet with gold fringes, while he seated himself on an easy chair by her side, "I have a favor to ask of you, and yet I know not by what right I can do so while you are yet in ignorance of my intentions. May I flatter myself that my gray hairs, my tender esteem for you, and the friendship of the noble Porpora your adopted father, will inspire you with sufficient confidence in me to induce you to open your heart without reserve?"

Affected and yet somewhat terrified at this commencement, Consuelo raised the old man's hand to her lips, and frankly replied, "My lord count, I love and respect you as if I had the honor and happiness to be your daughter, and I can answer all your questions without fear and without evasion, in whatever concerns me personally."

"I will ask you nothing else, my dear daughter, and I thank you for this promise. Believe me, I am as incapable of abusing your confidence, as I believe you incapable of breaking your pledge."

"I do believe it, my lord. Be pleased to speak."

"Well, then, my child," said the old man, encouragingly, "what is your name?"

"I have none," replied Consuelo, frankly; "my mother was called Rosmunda. At my baptism they named me Maria of Consolation; I never knew my father."

"But you are acquainted with his name?"

"No, signor; I never heard him spoken of."

"Has Master Porpora adopted you? has he given you his name by any legal act?"

"No, signor; among artists these things are not thought of. My generous master possesses nothing, and has nothing to bequeath. As to his name, it was unimportant in my situation whether I adopted it from custom or otherwise. If my talents justify it, it will be well; if not, I shall be unworthy of the honor of bearing it."

The count was silent for some moments; then taking Consuelo's hand:

"Your noble candor," said he, "gives me a yet higher opinion of you. Do not think that I ask these particulars in order to esteem you more or less according to your condition and birth. I wished to ascertain if you had any disinclination to tell the truth, and I see you have none. I am infinitely indebted to you; you are more ennobled by your character than we are by our birth and titles."

Consuelo smiled at the simplicity of the old patrician, who wondered that she could, without blushing, make so plain a declaration. There was apparent in his conduct a remnant of aristocratic prejudice, all the more tenacious that Christian had nobly combated and evidently desired to vanquish it.

"Now," said he, "I must put a question yet more delicate, and I require all your indulgence to excuse me."

"Fear nothing, signor; I shall reply frankly."

"Well, then, my child, you are not married?"

"No, signor."

"And——you are not a widow—you have no children?"

"I am not a widow—I have no children," replied Consuelo, who had a great inclination to laugh, although not well knowing what the count's drift was.

"And you are not engaged to any one? you are perfectly free?"

"Pardon, signor; I was engaged with the consent, even by the command, of my dying mother, to a young man whom I loved since childhood, and to whom I was betrothed up to the period of my quitting Venice."

"Then you are engaged?" said the count, with a singular mixture of vexation and satisfaction.

"No, signor, I am perfectly free," replied Consuelo. "He whom I loved, unworthily betrayed his faith, and I left him forever."

"Then you did love him?" said the count, after a pause.

"From my heart."

"And——perhaps you love him still?"

"No, signor, that is impossible."

"Then you have no wish to see him again?"

"It would be a torment to me. But since I am called upon to confess fully, as I do not wish to take any advantage of your esteem for me I shall inform you of every thing. We lived together as children, followed the same amusements, drank from the same cup, we were ever together, we loved each other, and we were to be married. I had sworn to my mother to be prudent; I have kept my word, if indeed it be prudent to believe in a man who wished to deceive me, and repose confidence, affection, esteem, where they were not deserved. When he proved himself to be faithless, I tore him from my heart. This man without honor may indeed tell a different tale, but that is of no great importance to one in my humble position. Provided I sing well, nothing more is required of me. While I can pray without remorse before the crucifix on which I have sworn to my mother, I need not trouble myself as to what is thought of me. There is no one to blush on my account; no brothers, no cousins, to fight for my sake."

"No brothers? but you have a brother?"

Consuelo was on the paint of confiding all to the old count, under the seal of secrecy; but she feared it would be base to seek any extrinsic defense against one who had so meanly threatened her. She thought that she herself should have the firmness to defend and deliver herself from the pursuit of Anzoleto. Besides, her generous soul recoiled at the idea of having the man expelled whom she had so faithfully loved. Whatever courtesy Count Christian might display in this case toward Anzoleto, however culpable the latter might be, she had not courage to subject him to such indignity. She replied therefore that she looked upon her brother as a person of little understanding, whom she was accustomed to treat as a child.

"But he is not surely an ill-conducted person?" said the count.

"Possibly," she replied; "I have little intercourse with him. Our characters and modes of thinking are quite different. Your highness might have observed that I was not anxious to detain him here."

"It shall be as you wish, my child; you have an excellent judgment; and now that you have confided every thing to me with such noble frankness——"

"Pardon me, signor," said Consuelo; "I have not told you every thing, because you have not asked me. I am ignorant of your motives in putting these questions to me, but I presume that some one has spoken unfavorably of me, and that you wish to know if I am a discredit to your household. Hitherto your inquiries have been of so general a nature that I should have felt myself wanting in propriety if I had spoken of my affairs without your permission. But since you wish to know me thoroughly, I must mention a circumstance that will perhaps injure me in your estimation. It is not only possible, as you have often suspected, though I had no wish for it myself, that I should have embraced a theatrical career, but it is asserted that I appeared last season at Venice, under the name of Consuelo. I was called the Zingarella, and all Venice was acquainted with my appearance and my voice."

"Ha!" exclaimed the count, astounded at this new revelation; "you are then the wonder that created so great a sensation at Venice last year, and whom the Italian papers so often and so highly eulogized? The finest voice, the most splended talents, that had appeared within the memory of man——"

"Upon the theater of San Samuel, my lord. Those eulogiums were without doubt exaggerated; but it is an incontestible fact that I am that same Consuelo, that I sang in several operas—in one word, that I am an actress, or, to use a more polite term, a cantatrice. You can now judge if I deserve to retain your good opinion."

"This is very extraordinary! what a strange destiny!" said the count, absorbed in thought. "Have you told this to—to any one besides me, my child?"

"I have told nearly all to the count your son, my lord, although I did not enter into the details you have just heard."

"So Albert knows your birth, your former love, your profession?"

"Yes, my lord."

"It is well, my dear signora. I cannot thank you warmly enough for the admirable straightforwardness of your conduct toward us, and I promise you that you will have no reason to repent it. Now, Consuelo—(yes, I remember that was the name Albert gave you on your first coming, when he talked Spanish to you)—permit me to collect my thoughts a little. I feel deeply agitated. We have still many things to say to each other, and you must forgive a little anxiety on my part in coming to so grave a decision. Have the goodness to wait here for me an instant."

He left the room, and Consuelo, following him with her eyes, saw him, through the glazed glass doors, enter his oratory and kneel down with fervor.

Herself greatly agitated, she was lost in conjectures as to the object of a conversation which was ushered in with so much solemnity. At first she thought that Anzoleto, while waiting for her, had out of spite already done what he had threatened; that he had been talking to the chaplain or Hans, and that the manner in which he had spoken of her, had excited grave suspicions in the minds of her hosts. But Count Christian could not dissemble, and hitherto his manner and his words had announced increased affection, rather than a feeling of mistrust. Besides, the frankness of her answers had affected him as unexpected revelations would have done; the last especially had seemed to strike him like a flash of lightning. And now he was praying, he was asking God to enlighten and sustain him in the accomplishment of a great resolution. "Is he about to ask me to leave the house with my brother? Is he about to offer me money?" she asked herself. "Ah! may God preserve me from that insult! But no! this good old man is too highminded, too good, to dream of humiliating me. What did he mean to say at first, and what can he mean to say now? Most probably my long walk with his son may have given him uneasiness, and he is about to scold me. I have deserved it perhaps, and I will submit to his rebuke, since I cannot answer sincerely the questions which may be asked me respecting Albert. This is a trying day; my chest feels all on fire, and my throat is parched."

Count Christian soon returned. He was calm, and his pale countenance bore witness of a victory obtained over himself from a noble motive. "My daughter," said he to Consuelo, reseating himself beside her, and insisting on her retaining the sumptuous arm-chair which she had wished to yield to him, and on which she seemed enthroned, in spite of herself; "it is time that I should respond by my frankness to the openness and confidence which you have testified toward me. Consuelo, my son loves you."

Consuelo became pale and red by turns. She attempted to answer, but Christian interrupted her.

"It is not a question which I ask you," said he. "I should have no right to do so, and perhaps you would have none to answer me; for I know that you have not in any way encouraged Albert's hopes. He has told me all; and I believe him, for he has never told a falsehood, nor I either."

"Nor I either," said Consuelo, raising her eyes to heaven with an expression of mingled humility and pride. "Count Albert must have told you, my lord——"

"That you have repelled every idea of a union with him."

"It was my duty. I knew the usages and the ideas of the world; I knew that I was not made to be Count Albert's wife, for the sole reason that I esteem myself inferior to no person under God, and that I would not receive grace or favor from any one on earth."

"I know your just pride, Consuelo. I should consider it exaggerated, if Albert had been alone in the world; but believing as you did that I would not approve of such a union, you were right to answer as you have done."

"And now, my lord," said Consuelo, rising, "I understand what you are about to add, and beseech you to spare me the humiliation I feared. I will leave your house, as I would before this have left it, if I had thought I could do so without endangering the reason and perhaps the life of Count Albert, over whom I have more influence than I could have wished. Since you know what it was not permitted me to reveal to you, you can watch over him, prevent the bad effects of this separation, and resume the exercise of a care which belongs to you rather than to me. If I arrogated it to myself indiscreetly, it is a fault which God will forgive me; for He knows by what pure and disinterested feelings I was actuated."

"I know it," returned the count, "and God has spoken to my conscience, as Albert has spoken to my heart. Sit down therefore, Consuelo, and do not be hasty in condemning my intentions. It was not to order you to quit my house, but to beseech you from my inmost soul to remain in it all your life, that I asked you to listen to me."

"All my life?" replied Consuelo, falling back upon her chair, divided between the satisfaction she felt at this reparation made to her dignity, and the terror which such an offer caused her. "All my life! your lordship cannot mean what you are kind enough to say."

"I have thought seriously on it, my daughter," replied the count, with a melancholy smile, "and I feel that I shall not repent it. My son loves you to distraction, and you have complete power over his soul. It is you who restored him to me, you who ventured to seek him in some mysterious place which he will not disclose to me, but into which he says no one but a mother or a saint would have dared to penetrate. It is you who risked your life to save him from the gloomy seclusion and delirium which consumed him, Thanks to you he has ceased to cause us horrible anxiety by his absences. It is you who have restored him to calmness, health—in a word, to reason. For it must not be dissembled that my poor boy was mad, and it is certain that he is so no longer. We have passed nearly the whole night together, and he has displayed to me a wisdom superior to mine. I knew that you were to walk with him this morning, and I therefore authorized him to ask of you that which you refused to hear. You were afraid of me, dear Consuelo; you thought that the old Rudolstadt, encased in his aristocratic prejudices, would be ashamed to owe his son to you. Well! you were mistaken. The old Rudolstadt has had pride and prejudices without doubt; perhaps he has them still—he will not conceal his faults before you—but he now abjures them, and in the transport of a boundless gratitude, he thanks you for having restored to him his last, his only child!" So saying, Count Christian took both of Consuelo's hands in his, and covered them with kisses and tears.