CHAPTER C

IN spite of the excessive agitation which Consuelo had undergone, she if possible surpassed herself in the third act. She neither expected nor calculated upon it. She had entered on the stage with the desperate resolution of submitting to an honorable failure, since she was convinced that her voice and strength would entirely desert her the moment she was called on to exercise them. She was not afraid; a thousand hisses would have been as nothing compared with the shame and danger she had just escaped by a sort of miraculous intervention. Another miracle followed the first. Consuelo's good genius seemed to watch over her; her voice far surpassed what it had ever been before, she sang with more maestria, and acted with more energy and passion than she had hitherto displayed. Her highest powers were called forth, and it seemed to her as if every moment she was about to give way like a cord too highly strung; but this feverish excitement merely served to translate her into another sphere. She acted as if in a dream, and was astonished to find there the energies and powers of life.

And then a ray of happiness came to cheer her when sinking under the dread of failure. Albert doubtless was there. He must have been in Vienna at least from the evening before. He observed and watched over all her movements; for to whom else could she ascribe the unforseen succor which she had received, and the almost supernatural strength which it required to overthrow a man like Francis Trenck, the Slavonic Hercules. And if, from one of those eccentricities, of which his character offered but too many examples, he had refused to speak to her and had avoided her looks, it was evident that he still loved her passionately since he showed himself so anxious for her safety, so courageous in her defense.

"Well," thought Consuelo, "since Heaven permits my strength to remain unimpaired, I should wish him to see me look well in my part, and that from the corner of the box whence he now doubtless observes me, he should enjoy a triumph which I owe neither to charlatanism nor cabals."

While still preserving the spirit of her part, she sought him everywhere with her eyes, but could nowhere discover him, and when she retired behind the scenes she continued to seek him, but with the same want of success. "Where could he be? Where had he taken refuge? Had he killed the Pandour on the instant by his fall? Was he forced to evade pursuit? Would he seek an asylum with Porpora, or should she find him this time on returning to the embassy?" All these perplexities however vanished when she again entered on the stage, where she forgot as if by some magic power all the details of her actual life, only to experience a vague sense of expectation mingled with enthusiasm, terror, gratitude, and hope. All this was in her part, and was expressed in accents admirable for their tenderness and truth.

She was called for at the end of the performance, and the empress was the first to throw her from her box a bouquet to which was attached a handsome present. The court and city followed the example of the sovereign, and showered on her a perfect storm of flowers. Amid these perfumed gifts, Consuelo saw a green branch fall at her feet, on which her eyes were involuntarily fixed. When the curtain was lowered for the last time, she picked it up—it was a branch of cypress! Then all her triumphant laurels vanished from her thoughts, leaving as their sole occupant this funeral emblem, a symbol of grief and despair, and perhaps the token of a last adieu. A death-like chill succeeded to this feverish emotion, an insurmountable terror caused a cloud to pass before her eyes, her limbs refused to support her, and those around bore her fainting into the carriage of the Venetian ambassador, where Porpora vainly endeavored to extract a word from her. Her lips were icy cold, and her lifeless hand still grasped beneath her mantle the cypress branch, which seemed to have been thrown by the hand of death.

On descending the staircase of the theater she had not seen the traces of blood, and, in the confusion attendant on leaving the theater, few people had observed them. But while she returned to the embassy, absorbed in her gloomy reverie, a painful scene took place with closed doors in the green-room of the theater. Shortly before the end of the performance, some supernumeraries had discovered Trenck lying in a fainting state at the foot of the stairs, and bathed in his own blood. He was carried into one of the rooms reserved for the performers, and, in order to avoid noise and confusion, the director, a medical attendant, and the police, had been secretly informed, in order that they might attend and certify the fact. The public and the great body of performers left the room, therefore, without knowing anything about the matter, while the professional gentlemen, the imperial functionaries, and some compassionate witnesses, exerted themselves to assist the Pandour, and draw from him the cause of the accident. Corilla, who had been waiting for his carriage to arrive, and who had despatched her waiting-maid several times to obtain some tidings of him, was so vexed and annoyed by the delay, that she descended by herself, at the risk of having to go home on foot. She met Holzbaüer, who, knowing her intimacy with Trenck, brought her to the green-room, where she saw the Pandour with his head cut and bleeding, and his body so covered with contusions that he could not move. She filled the air with her shrieks and lamentations. Holzbaüer dismissed the curious spectators, and closed the doors. The cantatrice could throw no light on the affair, but Trenck, having now somewhat recovered, declared that having penetrated into the interior of the theater without permission, in order to see the dancers a little more nearly, he had wished to leave the house before the end of the performance, and that, unacquainted with the intricacies of the building, he had missed his footing, and rolled down the cursed stairs to the bottom. They were satisfied with this explanation, and carried him home, where Corilla hastened to nurse him with such zeal as to lose the favor of Kaunitz and the good will of her majesty; but she boldly made the sacrifice, and Trenck, whose frame had already resisted worse assaults, escaped with eight days' lameness and an additional scar on his head.

He mentioned to no one his want of success, but secretly resolved to make Consuelo pay dearly for it. He would doubtless have fearfully redeemed this promise if an imperial mandate had not suddenly torn him from Corilla, to cast him, still suffering from the fever of his wound and hardly recovered from his fall, into the military prison. That which public rumor had vaguely informed the canon of was already in course of being realized. The Pandour's wealth had excited a burning, inextinguishable thirst in the breasts of several influential and adroit followers of the court, and to this lust for riches he fell a victim. Accused of all the crimes he had committed, as well as of all those which could possibly be imagined by persons interested in his ruin, he began to experience the delays, the vexations, the impudent prevarications, and refined injustice of a long and scandalous trial. Avaricious in spite of his ostentation, proud notwithstanding his vices, he was not willing to recompense the zeal of his protectors, or to bribe the conscience of his judges. We shall leave him confined, until fresh orders, in his prison, where, having been guilty of some violence, he had the mortification and shame to see himself chained by the foot. Shame and infamy! it was precisely the foot which had been shattered by the explosion of a bomb-shell in one of his most brilliant military actions. He had undergone the scarification of the ulcerated bone, and although hardly recovered, had remounted his horse and resumed his service with heroic firmness. An iron ring, to which was attached a heavy chain, was rivetted upon this horrible scar. The wound reopened, and he endured fresh tortures, no longer in the service of Maria Theresa, but as a reward for having served her too well.10 The Great Queen—who had not been displeased at seeing him ravage and destroy unfortunate Bohemia, which afforded a rather uncertain rampart against the enemy, in consequence of the ancient national hatred—the king Maria Theresa, who, having no longer need of the crimes of Trenck and the excess of his pandours to strengthen her upon the throne, began to look upon them as monstrous and unpardonable—was supposed to be ignorant of this barbarous treatment, in the same way that the great Frederick was supposed ignorant of the ferocious refinements of cruelty, the tortures of inanition, and the sixty-eight pounds of iron, under which sank, a little later, that other Baron Trenck, his handsome page, his brilliant artillery officer, the rescuer and the friend of our Consuelo. All those flatterers who have flippantly transmitted to us the recital of these abominable deeds, have attributed the odium of them to subaltern officers or to obscure deputies, in order to clear the memory of their sovereigns. But those sovereigns, so ill-informed respecting the abuses of their jails, knew so well, on the contrary, what was passing there, that Frederick the Great himself furnished the design for the irons which Trenck the Prussian wore for nine years in his sepulcher at Magdeburg; and if Maria Theresa did not exactly order Trenck the Austrian, her valorous pandour, to be chained by the mutilated foot, she was always deaf to his complaints, always inaccessible to his petitions. Besides, in the shameful havoc which her people made of the riches of the vanquished, she knew very well how to carry off the lion's share and refuse justice to his heirs.

Let us return to Consuelo, for it is our duty as a romancist to pass lightly over historical details. Still we know not how to treat of the adventures of our heroine totally apart from the facts which occurred in her time and under her eyes. On learning the pandour's misfortune she remembered no longer the outrages with which he had threatened her, and deeply revolted at the iniquity of his treatment; she assisted Corilla in sending him money at a time when all means of softening the rigor of his captivity were refused him. Corilla, better skilled in spending money than in acquiring it, found herself penniless exactly on the day when a secret emissary of her lover came to claim the necessary sum. Consuelo was the only person to whom this girl, prompted by the instinct of confidence and esteem, dared to have recourse. Consuelo immediately sold the present which the empress had thrown upon the stage at the conclusion of Zenobia, and handed the proceeds to her comrade, expressing at the same time her approval of her conduct in not abandoning the unfortunate Trenck in his distress.

Corilla's zeal and courage, which went every length in assisting the sufferer, induced Consuelo to regard with a sort of esteem a creature who although corrupted still had intervals of disinterested generosity. "Let us prostrate ourselves before the work of God's hand," said she to Joseph, who sometimes reproached her with being too intimate with this Corilla. "The human soul always preserves something great and good in its wanderings to which we owe respect, and in which we acknowledge with joy the impress of the divine hand. Where there is much to complain of there is also much to pardon, and where there is cause for pardon, good Joseph, be assured there is also cause to love! I confess to you that the part of a sister of charity seems to suit me better than a more secluded and gentler life, more glorious and agreeable resolves, the tranquillity of happy, respected, immaculate beings. My heart is made like the paradise of the gentle Jesus, where there is more joy over one repentant sinner than over ninety-and-nine just persons. I feel myself inclined to compassionate, sympathize, succor, and console. It seems to me as if the name my mother gave me at my birth, subjected me to this duty and this destiny. It is my only name, Beppo! Society has given me no family name to uphold, and if the world were to say that I lowered myself in seeking a few particles of pure gold from amid the dross of the misconduct of others, I owe the world no account. I am Consuelo, and nothing more! and this is enough for the daughter of Rosmunda, for Rosmunda was one on whom the world looked with coldness and contempt; yet such as she was, I was bound to love her, and I did love her. She was not respected as Maria Theresa is, yet she would not have chained Trenck by the foot, and left him to die in torture in order to obtain posession of his wealth. Corilla herself would not have done it; in place of seeking her own advantage she supports this Trenck who often treated her most cruelly. Joseph—Joseph! God is a greater emperor than ours, and since Mary Magdalene is seated in his presence, Corilla may perhaps one day take precedence even of the imperial queen. As for myself, I feel that if I had abandoned the culpable or the unhappy to seat myself at the banquet of the just, I should not have been on the highway of my salvation. The noble Albert, I feel assured, would join in this sentiment and would be the last to blame me for showing kindness to Corilla."

When Consuelo uttered these words to her friend Beppo, fifteen days had elapsed since the representation of Zenobia and the adventure of Baron Trenck. The six representations for which she had been engaged were completed, and Tesi had resumed her place in the theater. The empress busied herself privately through the ambassador Corner with Consuelo's proposed marriage with Haydn, promising, on that condition alone, an engagement for the latter in the imperial theater. Joseph was ignorant of all this, and Consuelo foresaw nothing. She thought only of Albert, who did not reappear, and from whom she received no intelligence. A thousand conjectures and contradictory conclusions passed through her mind, which, together with the shock she had experienced, tended to undermine her health. She had remained confined to her apartment since her engagement had expired, and continually gazed at the cypress branch which seemed to have been plucked from some tomb in the grotto of the Schreckenstein.

Beppo, the only friend to whom she could open her heart, endeavored at first to dissuade her from the idea that Albert had arrived in Vienna. But when he saw the cypress branch, he pondered deeply on the mystery, and ended by believing in the part the young count had taken in Trenck's adventure. "Listen," said he; "I think I know how it has all happened. Albert has been in Vienna, he has seen you, heard you, observed what you did, and followed your steps. The day that we conversed together behind the scenes, he might have been on the other side of the decoration and have heard the regret which I expressed on seeing you snatched from the theater when in the climax of your glory. You yourself made use of some vague expressions which might have led him to suppose that you preferred the splendor of your present career to his somewhat gloomy love. Next day he saw you enter Corilla's chamber, where, since he was always on the watch, he probably saw the Pandour precede you. The time which elapsed before he came to your assistance, almost proves that he believed you there of your own accord; and it was only after yielding to the temptation of listening at the door, that he could be aware of the necessity of his interference."

"Even if your supposition be correct," replied Consuelo, "why use this mystery? why assume this masked countenance?"

"You know the suspicious nature of the Austrian police. Perhaps he does not stand well at the court; perhaps he may have political reasons for concealing himself, or perhaps again his countenance is not unknown to Trenck. Who knows whether he may not have encountered him during the wars in Bohemia? Whether he may not have threatened him, dared him, or perhaps forced him to let go his hold of some poor innocent? Count Albert may have secretly performed deeds of exalted courage and humanity when he was supposed to be asleep in his grotto at Schreckenstein, and if he had done such he certainly would be the last to relate them, since by your admission he is the most humble and modest of men. He acted wisely therefore in not openly chastising the Pandour; for if the empress punish the Pandour today for having devastated her dear Bohemia, she will not on that account be the more disposed to overlook any past act of resistance to his authority on the part of a Bohemian.

"All that you say is very just, Joseph, and gives room for deep thought. A thousand anxieties beset me. Albert may have been recognized and arrested, and that too without the public knowing any more about it than about the fall of Trenck down the stairs. Alas! perhaps even now he is in the prisons of the arsenal beside Trenck's dungeon, and it is on my account he incurs this misfortune!"

"Comfort yourself, Consuelo, I cannot believe that that is the case. Count Albert has left Vienna, and you will shortly receive a letter from him dated from Riesenburg."

"Do you think so, Joseph?"

"I do. But if I must tell you all, I believe that the tenor of this letter will be very different from what you expect. I am convinced that far from exacting from your generous friendship the sacrifice of your artistic career, that he has already renounced the idea of this marriage, and is about to restore you your liberty. If he be intelligent, noble, and just, as you say he is, he would hesitate to tear you from the theater which you love so passionately. Nay, never deny it! I have seen it, and he also must have seen and felt it, in witnessing Zenobia. He will therefore reject a sacrifice which is beyond your strength, and I should esteem him but little were he not to do so."

"But read his last letter! See, here it is, Joseph! Does he not say he would love me as dearly in the theater as in the world or in a convent? Does he not propose in marrying me to leave me free?"

"Saying and doing, thinking and being, are two different things. In the dream of passion all seems possible, but when realities strike our vision we return with terror to our former ideas. Never will I believe that a man of rank could bear to see his wife exposed to the caprices and outrages of the audience of a theater. In venturing behind the scenes for the first time certainly in his life, the count must have witnessed in Trenck's conduct toward you a melancholy specimen of the miseries and dangers of a theatrical career. He has fled in despair it is true, but at the same time cured of his passion, and freed from his chimeras. Pardon me that I thus address you, my dear sister Consuelo, but I feel constrained to do so; for it were well for you that you never saw Count Albert more. You will one day feel the truth of this, though your eyes now swim with tears. Be just toward your betrothed instead of feeling humiliated at his change of sentiment. When he said he was not averse to the theater, he had formed an ideal picture of it which the first inspection completely dissipated. He then became aware that he should cause you misery in taking you from it, or consummate his own in following you."

"You are right, Joseph. I feel that you are; but suffer me to weep. It is not the humiliation of being forsaken and disdained that oppresses my heart: it is my regret for the image of ideal love and its power which I had formed just as Albert had done with respect to my theatrical career. He has now seen that I can no longer be worthy of him (in the opinion of men at least), in following such a profession, and I, on my part, am forced to admit that love is not strong enough to overcome all prejudices."

"Be just, Consuelo, and do not ask more than you have been able to grant. You did not love well enough to give up your art without hesitation or regret; do not therefore take it ill if Count Albert be unable to break with the world without some degree of terror or aversion."

"But whatever might have been my secret pain (and I may confess it), I was resolved for his sake to sacrifice every thing; while he——"

"Reflect that the passion was on his side, not on yours. He asked with ardor—you consented with effort. He must have been aware that you were about to sacrifice yourself for him; and he felt that he was not only at liberty to free you from a love which you had not sought or desired, but that he was conscientiously bound to do so."

This reasoning convinced Consuelo of Albert's wisdom and generosity. She feared in giving herself up to grief to yield to the suggestions of wounded pride, and, accepting Joseph's hypothesis as correct, she succeeded in calming herself. But by a well-known contradiction of the human heart, she no sooner saw herself at liberty to follow her inclination for the theater without hindrance or remorse, than she felt terrified at her solitary position in the midst of such corruption, and at the prospect of the toils and struggles which lay before her. The theater is a feverish arena, in comparison with which all the emotions of life appear tame and lifeless; but when the actor retires from its precincts, broken down with fatigue, he feels a sensation of terror at having undergone such a fiery trial, and his longing to return is checked by fear. The rope-dancer, I imagine, is no bad type of this perilous and intoxicating life. He experiences a terrible pleasure on those lines and cords where he performs feats apparently beyond human power; but when he was descended, he shudders at the idea of again mounting the giddy height and facing at once death and triumph—that two-faced specter that ever hovers above his head.

It was then that the Castle of the Giants, and even the Stone of Terror, that nightmare of her dreams, appeared to the exiled Consuelo as a sort of lost Paradise, the abode of peace and the revered asylum of piety and virtue. She fastened the cypress branch—that last message from the grotto—to her mother's crucifix, and, thus mingling these emblems of catholicism and heresy, her heart rose to the conception of one only eternal and unalloyed religion. It was then that she found comfort for her personal sufferings, and faith in the providence of God toward Albert, and toward all that crowd of mortals, good and bad, whom henceforth she must encounter alone and unaided.