CONSUELO

FOR the first time in his life, perhaps, the canon that night scarcely closed his eyes. He left agitated by a strange emotion. His brain was flooded with chords, melodies, and modulations, which a light slumber interrupted every instant, and which, in every interval of awakening, he strove, in spite of himself and even with a kind of vexation, to recall and connect, without being able to succeed. He had retained by heart the most striking passages of the pieces which Consuelo had sung to him; he heard them still resounding in his brain—in his heart; and then suddenly the thread of the musical idea was broken in his memory at the most beautiful place, and he recommenced it mentally a hundred times in succession, without being able to proceed a single note further. In vain, fatigued by these imaginary melodies, did he try to drive them away; they returned always to haunt his ear, and it seemed to him that even the light of his fire danced, in time to the music, upon his curtains of crimson satin. The faint hissings which issued from the burning wood seemed also to be singing those cursed airs, the termination of which remained ever an impenetrable secret to the canon's fatigued imagination. If he could have only completed one, it seemed to him that he would have been delivered from this plague of faithless reminiscences. But the musical memory is so constituted, that it torments and persecutes us, until we have satisfied it with that for which it thirsted.

Never had music made such an impression upon the canon, although he had been a distinguished dilettante all his life. Never had human voice so completely taken possession of his heart as that of Consuelo. Never had features and expression, never had language and manners, exercised upon his soul a fascination in the least to be compared with that which Consuelo's had exercised upon him during the last thirty-six hours! Did the canon guess, or did he not, the sex of the pretended Bertoni? Yes and no. How shall I explain this to you? You must know that at fifty the canon's thoughts and habits were as pure and blameless as those of a child. His independent position had allowed him to cultivate friendship, tolerance, and the arts; but love was forbidden him, and he had banished love from his heart, as the most dangerous enemy of his repose and his fortune. Still, as love is of a divine origin, and immortal in its nature, when we believe we have annihilated it, we have done nothing more than bury it alive in our hearts. It may sleep there silently for long years, until the day when it is destined to be reanimated. Consuelo appeared in the autumn of the canon's life, and his long apathy of soul was changed at once into a tender languor, more profound and tenacious than could have been foreseen. That apathetic heart knew not how to bound and palpitate for a beloved object; but it could melt as ice before the sun, give itself up to the abandonment of self, to patient submission, and that kind of passive self-denial which one is sometimes surprised to find in the most selfish, when love has taken possession of their hearts.

He loved then, this poor canon; at fifty, he loved for the first time, and he loved one who could never respond to his love. He was only too sensible of this, and this was why he wished to persuade himself, in spite of all probability, that it was not love which he experienced, since it was not a woman who inspired it.

In this respect he deceived himself completely, and in all the simplicity of his heart he took Consuelo for a boy. While performing canonical duties at the cathedral of Vienna, he had seen many young and handsome boys at the foundation; he had heard voices clear, silvery, and almost female in their purity and flexibility. True, Bertoni's was purer and more flexible a thousand times, but it was an Italian voice, he thought, and then Bertoni was an exception to the usual routine of nature—one of those precocious children whose faculties, genius, and aptitude proclaim them prodigies. And, proud and enthusiastic at having discovered this treasure on the highway, the canon, giving way to the transports of a fatherly affection and benevolent pride, already dreamed of making him known to the world, of bringing him forward, and of contributing to his fortune and his future fame.

No one would have imagined the existence of such simple-minded and romantic ideas in a man of the canon's character—satirical, jocular, and well acquainted with the usages of society, and the springs of human character. There was nevertheless a whole world of ideas, instincts, and feelings, formerly unknown, now thronging his breast. He had fallen asleep in the joy of his heart, planning a thousand projects for his young protegé, promising himself that he would pass his life in the midst of a perfect atmosphere of delicious music, and feeling his heart moved at the idea of cultivating, while he tempered them a little, the virtues which shone in that generous and ardent soul; but awakened every hour of the night by a singular emotion, pursued by the image of that wonderful child—now affrighted at the idea of seeing him escape from his already jealous tenderness, now impatient for the morrow to reiterate seriously the offers, promises, and prayers which Bertoni had appeared to take in jest—the canon, astonished at what passed in his mind, lost himself in a thousand fanciful conjectures. "Was I then destined by nature to have children, and to love them passionately?" asked he with an honest simplicity, "since the mere thought of adopting one throws me now into such a state of agitation? Yet it is the first time in my life that this feeling has been revealed to my heart, and now, in a single day, admiration attaches me to one, sympathy to another, pity to a third! Bertoni, Beppo, Angiolina! Here have I a family all of a sudden—I who pitied the trouble of parents, and who thanked God for being destined by my calling to solitude and repose. Can it be the quantity and excellence of the music I have heard today which so excites my ideas? It is rather that delicious Venetian coffee, of which I took two cups instead of one, out of pure gluttony! My brain has been so excited all day, that I have hardly once thought of my volkameria, withered from the effects of Peter's carelessness!

'Il mio cor si divide——'

"Ah! there again that cursed phrase recurs to me! plague take my memory!—What shall I do in order to sleep?—Four o'clock in the morning—it is unheard of!—I shall make myself ill!"

A bright idea came at last to the rescue of the good canon; he rose, took his writing-desk, and resolved to set to work on that famous book, so long since undertaken, but not yet begun. He was obliged, however, to consult the dictionary of canonical law, in order to refresh his memory on the subject, but he had not read two pages before his ideas became confused, his eyes closed, the book slid gently down from the eider-down cushion to the floor, the taper was extinguished by a sleepy sigh, and the worthy canon at last slept the sleep of the just until ten o'clock next morning.

Alas! how bitter was his awakening, when with a nerveless and careless hand he opened the following note, deposited by André upon the taper-stand along with his cup of chocolate!

"We depart, reverend and dear sir; an imperious duty calls us to Vienna, and we feared lest we might not be able to resist your generous entreaties. We fly as if we were ungrateful; but we are not so, and never shall we lose the recollection of your hospitality toward us, and of your noble and Christian charity for the deserted infant. We shall come back to thank you for it. Before a week you will see us again; please defer till then the baptism of Angela, and depend upon the respectful and tender affection of your humble protegés,

"BERTONI, BEPPO."

The canon turned pale, sighed, and rang his bell. "Then they have gone?" said he to André.

"And what did they say on departing? I hope they breakfasted, at least? Did they mention the day on which they would return?"

"Nobody saw them go, sir. They went as they came, over the wall. When I awoke, I found their chambers empty; the note which you hold in your hand was on their table, and all the doors of the house and inclosure were locked as I left them last night. They have not taken the value of a pin, they have not plucked even an apple, poor children!"

"I can readily believe it!" cried the canon, his eyes filling with tears. To dissipate his melancholy, André tried to induce him to consult the bill of fare and order dinner. "Give me what you please, André!" replied the canon in a heartrending voice, and fell back moaning on the pillow.

On the evening of the same day Consuelo and Joseph entered Vienna under cover of the darkness. The honest hairdresser, Keller, was admitted to their confidence, received them with open arms, and lodged his distinguished guest as well as his circumstances would permit. Consuelo was all amiability toward Joseph's betrothed, although secretly disappointed at finding her neither graceful nor handsome. On the morrow, Keller braided Consuelo's flowing tresses, and his daughter assisted her to resume the garments of her sex, and served her as a guide to Porpora's dwelling.