CHAPTER CV

Much time was lost in the journey from Pilsen to Tauss (though they proceeded as quickly as possible) from the execrable roads, the unfrequented and almost impassable forests, and the various dangers to which they were subjected in traversing them. At last, after having proceeded at the rate of about a league an hour they arrived at the Castle of the Giants about midnight. Consuelo had never experienced a more dreary or fatiguing journey. The Baron Rudolstadt seemed in a measure paralyzed from the effect of age and gout. But one short year before he had been robust as a giant, but his iron frame was not actuated by a resolute and determined will. He had never yielded obedience but to his instincts, and when the first stroke of misfortune assailed him, his feeble frame sunk beneath the blow. The pity which Consuelo felt for him only added to her uneasiness. "Is it thus," thought she, "that I shall find the rest of the family at Riesenburg?"

The bridge was lowered, the gates opened wide, and servants stood waiting their arrival with lighted torches in the court-yard. None of the three travelers thought of making a remark on this strange scene, and no one seemed able to question the domestics. Porpora, seeing that the baron could hardly walk, took his arm and assisted him along, while Consuelo darted to the entrance and flew up the steps.

She met the canoness in the doorway, who, without losing time in salutation, seized her by the arm, saying:

"Follow me; we have not a moment to lose. Albert begins to grow impatient. He has counted the hours and minutes till your arrival, and announced your approach a moment before we heard the sound of your carriage wheels. He had no doubt in his mind of your coming; but, he said, if any accident should happen to detain you, it would be too late. Come, signora, and in the name of heaven do not oppose any of his wishes; promise all he asks; pretend to love him; and if it must be, practice a friendly deceit! Alfred's hours are numbered; his life draws to a close. Endeavor to soothe his sufferings; it is all that we ask of you."

Thus saying, Wenceslawa led Consuelo in the direction of the great saloon.

"He is up, then—he is not confined to his chamber?" exclaimed Consnelo, hastily.

"He no longer rises, for he never retires to bed," replied the canoness. "For thirty days he has sat in his arm-chair in the saloon, and will not be removed elsewhere. The doctor says he must not be opposed on this point, and that he would die if he were moved. Take courage, signora; you are about to behold a terrible spectacle!"

The canoness opened the door of the saloon, and added:

"Fly to him; you need not fear to surprise him, for he expects you, and has seen you coming hours ago."

Consuelo darted toward her betrothed, who, as the canoness had said, was seated in a large arm-chair beside the fireplace. It was no longer a man, it was a specter which she beheld. His face, still beautiful, notwithstanding the ravages of disease, was as a face of marble. There was no smile on his lips—no ray of joy in his eyes. The doctor, who held his arm and felt his pulse, let it fall gently, and looked at the canoness, as much as to say—"It is too late." Consuelo knelt before him; he looked fixedly at her, but said nothing. At last he signed with his finger to the canoness, who had to interpret all his wishes. She took his arms, which he was no longer able to raise, and placed them on Consuelo's sholders. Then she made the young girl lay her head on Albert's bosom, and as the voice of the dying man was gone, he was merely able to whisper in her ear—"I am happy." He remained in this position for about two minutes, the head of his beloved resting on his bosom, and his lips pressed to her raven hair. Then he looked at his aunt, and by some hardly perceptible movement he made her understand that his father and his aunt were both to kiss his betrothed.

"From my very heart!" exclaimed the canoness, embracing Consuelo with deep emotion. Then she raised her to conduct her to Count Christian, whom Consuelo had not hitherto perceived.

Seated in a second arm-chair, placed opposite his son's at the other side of the fireplace, the old count seemed almost as much weakened and reduced. He was still able to rise, however, and take a few steps through the saloon; but he was obliged to be carried every evening to his bed, which had been placed in an adjoining room. At that moment he held his brother's hand in one of his, and Porpora's in the other. He left them to embrace Consuelo fervently several times. The almoner of the château came also in his turn to salute her, in order to gratify Albert. He also seemed like a spectre, notwithstanding his embonpoint which had only increased; but his paleness was frightful. The habits of an indolent and effeminate life had so enervated him that he could not endure the sorrow of others. The canoness alone retained energy for all. A bright red spot shone on each cheek, and her eyes burned with a feverish brightness. Albert alone appeared calm. His brow was calm as a sleeping infant's, and his physical prostration did not seem to have affected his mental powers. He was grave, and not, like his father and uncle, dejected.

In the midst of those different victims to disease or sorrow, the physician's calm and healthful countenance offered a striking contrast to all that surrounded him. Supperville was a Frenchman who had formerly been attached to the household of Frederick when the latter was only crown prince. Early aware of the despotic fault-finding turn which lurked in the prince, he fixed himself at Bareith, in the service of Sophia Wilhelmina, sister of the King of Prussia. At once jealous and ambitious, Supperville was the very model of a courtier. An indifferent physician, in spite of the local reputation he enjoyed, he was a complete man of the world, a keen observer, and tolerably conversant with the moral springs of disease. He had urged the canoness to satisfy all the desires of her nephew, and had hoped something from the return of her for whom Albert was dying. But however he might reckon his pulse and examine his countenance after Consuelo's arrival, he did not the less continue to reiterate that the time was past, and he determined to take his departure, in order not to witness scenes of despair which it was no longer in his power to avert.

He resolved, however, whether in conformity with some interested scheme, or merely to gratify his natural taste for intrigue, to make himself busy in family affairs; and seeing that no person in this bewildered family thought of turning the passing moments to account, he led Consuelo into the embrasure of a window, and addressed her as follows:

"Mademoiselle, a doctor is in some sort a confessor, and I therefore soon became aware of the secret passion which hurries this young man to the grave. As a medical man, accustomed habitually to investigate the laws of the physical world which do not readily vary, I must say that I do not believe in the strange visions and ecstatic revelations of the young count. As regards yourself, it is easy to ascribe them to secret communication with you, relative to your journey to Prague, and your subsequent arrival here."

And as Consuelo made a sign in the negative, he continued:

"I do not question you, mademoiselle, and my conjectures need not offend you. Rather confide in me, and look upon me as entirely devoted to your interests."

"I do not understand you, sir," replied Consuelo, with a candor which was far from convincing the court doctor.

"Perhaps you will understand presently, mademoiselle," he cooly rejoined. "The young count's relations have vehemently opposed the marriage up to this day. But now their opposition is at an end. Albert is about to die, and as he wishes to leave you his fortune, they cannot object to a religious ceremony that will secure it to you forever."

"Alas! what matters Albert's fortune to me," said the bereaved Consuelo; "what has that to do with his present situation? It was not business that brings me here, sir; I came to endeavor to save him. Is there no hope then?"

"None! This disease, entirely proceeding from the mind, is among those which baffles all our skill. It is not a month since the young count, after an absence of fifteen days, the cause of which no one could explain, returned to his home attacked by a disease at once sudden and incurable. All the functions of life were as if suspended. For thirty days he has swallowed no sort of food; and it is a rare exception, only witnessed in the case of the insane, to see life supported by a few drops of liquid daily and a few minutes' sleep each night. His vital powers, as you perceive, are now quite exhausted, and in a couple of days at the farthest he will have ceased to suffer. Arm yourself with courage, then; do not lose your presence of mind. I am here to aid you, and you have only to act boldly."

Consuelo was still gazing at the doctor with astonishment, when the canoness, on a sign from the patient, interrupted their colloquy by summoning him to Albert's side.

On his approach, Albert whispered in his ear for a longer period than his feebleness would have seemed to permit. Supperville turned red and pale alternately. The canoness looked at them anxiously, burning to know what wish Albert expressed.

"Doctor," said Albert, "I heard all you said just now to that young lady."

The doctor, who had spoken in a low whisper and at the farthest extremity of the saloon, became exceedingly confused at this remark, and his convictions respecting the impossibility of any superhuman faculty were so shaken that he stared wildly at Albert, unable to utter a word.

"Doctor," continued the dying man, "you do not understand that heavenly creature's soul, and you only interfere with my design by alarming her delicacy. She shares none of your ideas respecting money. She never coveted my fortune or my title. She never loved me, and it is to her pity alone you must appeal. Speak to her heart. I am nearer my end than you suppose; lose no time. I cannot expire happy if I do not carry with me into the night of my repose the title of her husband.

"But what do you mean by these last words," said Supperville, who at that moment was solely busied in analyzing the mental disease of his patient.

"You could not understand them," replied Albert, with an effort, "but she will understand them. You have only to repeat them faithfully to her."

"Count," said Supperville, raising his voice a little, "I find I cannot succeed in interpreting your ideas clearly; you have just spoken with more force and distinctness than you have done for the last eight days, and I cannot but draw a favorable augury from it. Speak to mademoiselle yourself; a word from you will convince her more than all I could say. There she is; let her take my place and listen to you."

Supperville in fact found himself completely at fault in an affair which he thought he had understood perfectly; and thinking he had said enough to Consuelo to insure her gratitude in the event of her realizing the fortune, he retired, after Albert had further said to him:

"Remember what you promised. The time has arrived, speak to my relatives. Let them consent, and delay not. The hour is at hand."

Albert was so exhausted by the effort he had just made, that he leaned his forehead on Consuelo's breast when she approached him, and remained for some moments in this position, as if at the point of death. His white lips turned livid, and Porpora, terrified, feared that he had uttered his last sigh. During this time Supperville had collected Count Christian, the baron, the canoness, and chaplain, round the fire-place, and addressed them earnestly. The chaplain was the only person who ventured on an objection, which although apparently faint was in reality as powerful as the old priest could urge.

"If your excellencies demand it," said he, "I shall lend my sacred functions to the celebration of this marriage. But Count Albert, not being at present in a state of grace, must first through confession and extreme unction make his peace with the church."

"Extreme unction!" said the canoness, with a stifled groan. "Gracious God! is it come to that?"

"It is even so," replied Supperville, who as a man of the world and a disciple of the Voltaire school of philosophy, detested both the chaplain and his objections; "yes, it is even so, and without remedy; if his reverence the chaplain insists on this point, and is bent on tormenting Count Albert by the dreary apparatus of death."

"And do you think," said Count Christian, divided between his sense of devotion and his paternal tenderness, "that a gayer ceremony, and one more congenial with his wishes might prolong his days?"

"I can answer positively for nothing," replied Supperville, "but I venture to anticipate much good from it. Your excellency consented to this marriage formerly——"

"I always consented to it. I never opposed it," said the count, designedly raising his voice; "it was master Porpora who wrote to say that he would never consent, and that she likewise had renounced all idea of it. Alas!" he added, lowering his voice, "it was the death-blow to my poor child."

"You hear what my father says," murmured Albert in Consuelo's ear, "but do not grieve for it. I believed you had abandoned me, and I gave myself up to despair; but during the last eight days I have regained my reason, which they call my madness. I have read hearts as others open books—I have read, with one glance, the past, the present, and the future. I learned, in short, that you were faithful, Consuelo; that you had endeavored to love me; and that you had, indeed, for a time succeeded. But they deceived us both; forgive your master, as I forgive him!"

Consuelo looked at Porpora, who could not indeed catch Albert's words, but who on hearing those of Count Christian was much agitated, and walked up and down before the fire with hurried strides. She looked at him with an air of solemn reproach; and the maestro understood her so well that he struck his forehead violently with his clenched hand. Albert signed to Consuelo to bring the maestro close to his couch, and to assist him to hold out his hand. Porpora pressed the cold fingers to his lips, and burst into tears. His conscience reproached him with homicide; but his sincere and heartfelt repentance palliated in some measure his fatal error.

Albert made a sign that he wished to listen what reply his relations made to the doctor, and he heard it, though they spoke so low that Porpora and Consuelo who were kneeling by his side could not distinguish a word.

The chaplain withstood, as well as he could, Supperville's bitter irony, while the canoness sought by a mixture of superstition and tolerance, of Christian charity and maternal tenderness, to conciliate what was irreconcilable to the Catholic faith. The question was merely one of form—that is to say, whether the chaplain would consider it right to administer the marriage sacrament to a heretic, unless indeed the latter would conform to the Catholic faith immediately afterward. Supperville indeed did not hesitate to say that Count Albert had promised to profess and believe anything after the ceremony was over; but the chaplain was not to be duped. At last, Count Christian, calling to his aid that quiet firmness and plain good sense with which, although after much weakness and hesitation, he had always put an end to domestic differences, spoke as follows:

"Reverend sir," said he to the chaplain, "there is no ecclesiastical law which expressly forbids the marriage of a Catholic to a schismatic. The church tolerates these alliances. Consider Consuelo then as orthodox, my son as heretic, and marry them at once. Confession and betrothal, as you are aware, are but matters of precept, and in certain cases may be dispensed with. Some favorable change may result from this marriage, and when Albert is cured it will then be time to speak of his conversion."

The chaplain had never opposed the wishes of Count Christian, who was in his eyes a superior arbiter in cases of conscience even to the pope himself. There only now remained to convince Consuelo. This Albert alone thought of, and drawing her toward him, he succeeded in clasping the neck of his beloved with his emaciated and shadowy arms.

"Consuelo," said he, "I read at this hour in your soul that you would give your life to restore mine. That is no longer possible; but you can restore me forever by a simple act of your will. I leave you for a time, but I shall soon return to earth under some new form. I shall return unhappy and wretched if you now abandon me. You know that the crimes of Ziska still remain unexpiated, and you alone, my sister Wando, can purify me in the new phase of my existence. We are brethren; to become lovers, death must cast his gloomy shadow between us. But we must, by a solemn engagement, become man and wife, that in my new birth I may regain my calmness and strength, and become, like other men, freed from the dreary memories of the past. Only consent to this engagement; it will not bind you in this life, which I am about to quit, but it will unite us in eternity. It will be a pledge whereby we can recognize each other, should death affect the clearness of our recollections. Consent! it is but a ceremony of the church which I accept, since it is the only one which in the estimation of men can sanction our mutual relation. This I must carry with me to the tomb. A marriage without the assent of my family would be incomplete in my eyes. Ours shall be indissoluble in our hearts, as it is sacred in intention. Consent!"

"I consent," exclaimed Consuelo, pressing her lips to the pale cold forehead of her betrothed.

These words were heard by all.

"Well!" said Supperville, "let us hasten," and he urged the chaplain vigorously, who summoned the domestics and gave them instructions to have every thing prepared for the ceremony. Count Christian, a little revived, sat close beside his son and Consuelo. The good canoness thanked the latter warmly for her condescension, and was so much affected as even to kneel before her and kiss her hands. Baron Frederick wept in silence, without appearing to know what was going on. In the twinkling of an eye an altar was erected in the great saloon. The domestics were dismissed; they thought it was only the last rights of the church which were about to be administered, and that the patient required silence and fresh air. Porpora and Supperville served as witnesses. Albert found strength sufficient to pronounce a decisive yes and the other forms which the ceremony required, in a clear and sonorous voice, and the family from this conceived a lively hope of his recovery. Hardly had the chaplain recited the closing prayer over the newly married couple, ere Albert arose, threw himself into his father's arms, and embraced him, as well as his aunt, his uncle, and Porpora, earnestly and rapidly; then seating himself in his arm-chair, he pressed Consuelo to his heart and exclaimed:

"I am saved!"

"It is the final effort, the last convulsion of nature," said Supperville, who had several times examined the features, and felt the pulse of the patient, while the marriage ceremony was proceeding.

In fact, Albert's arms loosed their hold, fell forward, and rested on his knees. His aged and faithful dog, Cynabre, who had not left his feet during the whole period of his illness, raised his head and uttered thrice a dismal howl. Albert's gaze was riveted on Consuelo; his lips remained apart as if about to address her; a faint glow animated his cheek; and then gradually that peculiar and indescribable shade which is the forerunner of death crept from his forehead down to his lips, and by degrees overshadowed his whole face as with a snowy veil. The silence of terror which brooded over the breathless and attentive group of spectators was interrupted by the doctor, who, in solemn accents, pronounced the irrevocable decree: "It is the hand of Death!"