CHAPTER CVI

COUNT CHRISTIAN fell back senseless in his chair. The canoness, sobbing convulsively, flung herself on Albert's remains, as if she hoped by her caresses to rouse him to life again, while Baron Frederick uttered some unmeaning words with a sort of idiotic calm. Supperville approached Consuelo, whose utter immobility terrified him more than the agitation of the others.

"Do not trouble yourself about me, sir," she said, "nor you either, my friend," added she, addressing Porpora, who hastened to add his condolence, "but remove his unhappy relatives and endeavor to sustain and comfort them; as for me, I shall remain here. The dead need nothing but respect and prayers."

The count and the baron suffered themselves to be led away without resistence; as for the canoness, she was carried, cold and apparently lifeless, to her apartment, where Supperville followed to lend assistance. Porpora, no longer knowing where he was or what he did, rushed out and wandered through the gardens like an insane person. He felt as if suffocated. His habitual insensibility was more apparent than real. Scenes of grief and terror had excited his impressionable imagination, and he hastened onward by the light of the moon, pursued by gloomy voices which chanted a frightful Dies iræ incessantly in his ears.

Consuelo remained alone with Albert; for hardly had the chaplain begun to recite the prayers for the dead, than he fainted away and was borne off in his turn. The poor man had insisted on sitting up along with the canoness during the whole of Albert's illness, and was utterly exhausted. The Countess of Rudolstadt, kneeling by the side of her husband and holding his cold hands in hers, her head pressed against his which beat no longer, fell into deep abstraction. What Consuelo experienced at this moment was not exactly pain; at least it was not that bitter regret which accompanies the loss of beings necessary to our daily happiness. Her regard for Albert was not of this intimate character, and his death left no apparent void in her existence. The despair of losing those whom we love, not infrequently resolves itself into selfishness, and abhorrence of the new duties imposed upon us. One part of this grief is legitimate and proper; the other is not so, and should be combated, though it is just as natural. Nothing of all this mingled with the solemn and tender melancholy of Consuelo. Albert's nature was foreign to her own in every respect, except in one—the admiration, respect, and sympathy with which he had inspired her. She had chalked out a plan of life without him, and had even renounced the idea of an affection which, until two days before, she had thought extinct. What now remained to her was the desire and duty of proving faithful to a sacred pledge. Albert had been already dead as regarded her; he was now nothing more, and was perhaps even less so in some respects; for Consuelo, long exalted by intercourse with this lofty soul, had come in her dreamy reverie to adopt in a measure some of his poetical convictions. The belief in the transmission of souls had received a strong foundation in her instinctive repugnance toward the idea of eternal punishment after death, and in her Christian faith in the immortality of the soul. Albert, alive, but prejudiced against her by appearances, seemed as if wrapped in a veil, transported into another existence incomplete in comparison with that which he had proposed to devote to pure and lofty affection and unshaken confidence. But Albert, restored to this faith in her and to his enthusiastic affection, and yielding up his last breath on her bosom—had he then ceased to exist as regarded her? Did he not live in all the plenitude of a cloudless existence in passing under the triumphal arch of a glorious death, which conducted him either to a temporary repose, or to immediate consciousness in a purer and more heavenly state of being? To die struggling with one's own weakness, and to awake endowed with strength; to die forgiving the wicked, and to awake under the influence and protection of the upright; to die in sincere repentance, and to awake absolved and purified by the innate influence of virtue—are not these heavenly rewards? Consuelo, already initiated by Albert into doctrines which had their origin among the Hussites of Old Bohemia, as well as among the mysterious sects of preceding ages, who had humbly endeavored to interpret the words of Christ—Consuelo, I repeat, convinced, more from her gentle and affectionate nature than by the force of reasoning, that the soul of her husband was not suddenly removed from her forever and carried into regions inaccessible to human sympathies, mingled with this belief some of the superstitious ideas of her childhood. She had believed in spirits as the common people believe in them, and had more than once dreamed that she saw her mother approach to protect and shield her from danger. It was a sort of belief in the eternal communion of the souls of the living and the dead—a simple and childlike faith, which has ever existed to protest as it were against that creed which would forever separate the spirits of the departed from this lower world, and assign them a perfectly different and far distant sphere of action.

Consuelo, still kneeling by Albert's remains, could not bring herself to believe that he was dead, and could not comprehend the dread nature either of the word or of the reality. It did not seem possible that life could pass away so soon, and that the functions of heart and brain had ceased forever. "No," thought she, "the Divine spark still lingers, and hesitates to return to the hand who gave it, and who is about to resume his gift in order to send it forth under a renewed form into some loftier sphere. There is still, perhaps, a mysterious life existing in the yet warm bosom; and besides, wherever the soul of Albert is, it sees, understands, knows all that has taken place here. It seeks perhaps some aliment in my love—an impulsive power to aid it in some new and heavenly career." And, filled with these vague thoughts, she continued to love Albert, to open her soul to him, to express her devotion to him, to repeat her oath of fidelity—in short, in feeling and idea, to treat him, not as a departed spirit for whom one weeps without hope, but as a sleeping friend whose awakening smiles we joyfully await.

When Porpora had become more composed, he thought with terror of the situation in which he had left his pupil, and hastened to rejoin her. He was surprised to find her as calm as if she had watched by the bedside of a sleeping friend. He would have spoken to her and urged her to take some repose:

"Do not utter unmeaning words," said she, "in presence of this sleeping angel. Do you retire to rest, my dear master; I shall remain here."

"Would you then kill yourself?" said Porpora, in despair.

"No, my friend, I shall live," replied Consuelo; "I shall fulfill all my duties toward him and toward you, but not for one instant shall I leave his side this night."

When morning came, all was still. An overpowering drowsiness had deadened all sense of suffering. The physician, exhausted by fatigue, had retired to rest. Porpora slumbered in his chair, his head supported on Count Christian's bed. Consuelo alone felt no desire to abandon her post. The count was unable to leave his bed, but Baron Frederick, his sister, and the chaplain, proceeded almost mechanically to offer up their prayers before the altar; after which they began to speak of the interment. The canoness, regaining strength when necessity required her services, summoned her women and old Hans to aid her in the necessary duties. Porpora and the doctor then insisted on Consuelo taking some repose, and she yielded to their entreaties, after first paying a visit to Count Christian, who apparently did not see her. It was hard to say whether he waked or slept, for his eyes were open, his respiration calm, and his face without expression.

When Consuelo awoke, after a few hours' repose, she returned to the saloon, but was struck with dismay to find it empty. Albert had been laid upon a bier and carried to the chapel. His arm-chair was empty, and in the same position where Consuelo had formerly seen it. It was all that remained to remind her of him, in this place where every hope and aspiration of the family had been centered for so many bitter days. Even his dog had vanished. The summer sun lighted up the somber wainscoting of the apartment, while the merry call of the blackbirds sounded from the garden with insolent gayety. Consuelo passed on to the adjoining apartment, the door of which was half open. Count Christian, who still kept his couch, lay apparently insensible to the loss he had just sustained, and his sister watched over him with the same vigilant attention that she had formerly shown to Albert. The baron gazed at the burning logs with a stupefied air; but the silent tears which trickled down his aged cheeks showed that bitter memory was still busy with his heart.

Consuelo approached the canoness to kiss her hand, but the old lady drew it back from her with evident marks of aversion. Poor Wenceslawa only beheld in her the destroyer of her nephew. At first she had held the marriage in detestation, and had opposed it with all her might; but when she had seen that time and absence alike failed to induce Albert to renounce his engagement, and that his reason, life, and health, depended on it, she had come to desire it as much as she had before hated and repelled it. Porpora's refusal, the exclusive passion for the theater which he ascribed to Consuelo, and in short all the officious and fatal falsehoods which he had despatched in succession to Count Christian, without ever adverting to the letters which Consuelo had written, but which he had suppressed—had occasioned the old man infinite suffering, and aroused in the canoness' breast the bitterest indignation. She felt nothing but hate and contempt for Consuelo. She could pardon her, she said, for having perverted Albert's reason through this fatal attachment, but she could not forgive her for having so basely betrayed him. Every look of the poor aunt, who knew not that the real enemy of Albert's peace was Porpora, seemed to say "you have destroyed our child; you could not restore him again; and now the disgrace of your alliance is all that remains to us."

This silent declaration of war hastened Consuelo's resolve to comfort, so far as might be, the canoness for this last misfortune. "May I request," said she, "that your ladyship will favor me with a private interview? I must leave this tomorrow ere daybreak; but before setting out I would fain make known my respectful intentions."

"Your intentions! Oh, I can easily guess them," replied the canoness, bitterly. "Do not be uneasy, mademoiselle, all shall be as it ought to be, and the rights which the law yields you shall be strictly respected."

"I perceive you do not comprehend me, madam," replied Consuelo; "I therefore long——"

"Well! since I must drain the bitter cup to the dregs," said the canoness, rising, "let it be now, while I have still courage to endure it. Follow me, signora. My eldest brother appears to slumber, and Supperville, who has consented to remain another day, will take my place for half an hour."

She rang, and desired the doctor to be sent for, then turning to the baron:

"Brother," said she, "your cares are useless, since Christian is still unconscious of his misfortune. He may never be otherwise—happily for him, but most unhappily for us! Perhaps insensibility is but the forerunner of death. I have now only you in the world, my brother; take care of your health, which this dreary inaction has only too much affected already. You were always accustomed to air and exercise. Go out, take your gun, the huntsman will follow with the dogs. Do, I entreat you, for my sake; it is the doctor's orders, as well as your sister's prayer. Do not refuse me; it is the greatest consolation you can bestow on my unhappy old age."

The baron hesitated, but at last yielded the point. The servants led him out, and he followed them like a child. The doctor examined Count Christian, who still seemed hardly conscious, though he answered any questions which were put to him with gentle indifference, and appeared to recognize those around him. "After all," said Supperville, "he is not so ill; and if he pass a goodnight, it may turn out nothing after all."

Wenceslawa, a little consoled, left her brother in the doctor's care, and conducted Consuelo to a large apartment, richly decorated in an antique fashion, where she had never been before. It contained a large state-bed, the curtains of which had not been stirred for more than twenty years. It was that in which Wanda Prachalitz, the mother of Count Albert, had breathed her last sigh, for this had been her apartment. "It was here," said the canoness with a solemn air, after having closed the door, "that we found Albert; it is now two-and-thirty days since, after an absence of thirteen. From that day to this he never entered it again; nor did he once quit the armchair where yesterday he expired."

The dry, cold manner with which the canoness uttered this funereal announcement struck a dagger to Consuelo's heart. She then took from her girdle her inseparable bunch of keys, walked toward a large cabinet of sculptured oak, and opened both its doors. Consuelo saw that it contained a perfect mountain of jewels tarnished by age, of a strange fashion, the larger portion antique and enriched by diamonds and precious stones of considerable value. "These," said the canoness to her, "are the family jewels which were the property of my sister-in-law, Count Christian's wife, before her marriage; here, in this partition, are my grandmother's, which my brothers and myself made her a present of; and lastly, here are those which her husband bought for her. All these descended to her son Albert, and henceforth belong to you as his widow. Take them, and do not fear that any one here will dispute with you these riches, to which we attach no importance, and with which we have nothing more to do. The title-deeds of my nephew's maternal inheritance will be placed in your hands within an hour. All is in order, as I told you; and as to those of his paternal inheritance, you will not, alas! have probably long to wait for them. Such were Albert's last wishes. My promise to act in conformity with them had, in his eyes, all the force of a will."

"Madam," replied Consuelo, closing the cabinet with a movement of disgust, "I should have torn the will had there been one, and I pray you now to take back your word. I have no more need than you for all these riches. It seems to me that my life would be forever stained by the possession of them. If Albert bequeathed them to me, it was doubtless with the idea that, conformably to his feelings and habits, I would distribute them to the poor. But I should be a bad dispenser of these noble charities; I have neither the talents nor the knowledge necessary to make a useful disposition of them. It is to you, madam, who unite to those qualities a Christian spirit as generous as that of Albert, it belongs to employ this inheritance in works of charity. I relinquish to you my rights (if indeed I can be said to have any), of which I am ignorant and wish always to remain so. I claim from your goodness only one favor, viz: that you will never wound my feelings by renewing such offers."

The canoness changed countenance. Forced to esteem,
but unwilling to admire, she endeavored to persist in her
offer.

"But what do you mean to do?" said she, looking steadily at Consuelo; "you have no fortune?"

"Excuse me, madam, I am rich enough. I have simple tastes and a love for labor."

"Then you intend to resume—what you call your labor?"

"I am compelled to do so, madam, and for reasons which prevent my hesitating, notwithstanding the dejection in which I am plunged."

"And you do not wish to support your new rank in the world in any other manner?"

"What rank, madam?"

"That which befits Albert's widow."

"I shall never forget, madam, that I am the widow of the noble Albert, and my conduct shall be worthy of the husband I have lost."

"And yet the Countess of Rudolstadt intends once more to appear on the stage!"

"There is no other Countess of Rudolstadt than yourself, madam, and there never will be another after you, except the Baronesss Amelia, your niece."

"Do you mean to insult me by speaking of her, signora?" cried the canoness, who started at that name as if seared with a red-hot iron.

"Why that question, madam?" returned Consuelo, with an astonishment which Wenceslawa saw at once was not feigned. "In the name of heaven, tell me why I have not seen the young baroness here? Oh, heavens! can she be dead also?"

"No," said the canoness bitterly. "Would to heaven she were! Let us not speak of her; what we have said has no reference to her."

"I am nevertheless compelled, madam, to recall to your mind what only now strikes me. It is, that she is the only and legitimate heiress of the property and titles of your family. This must put your conscience at rest respecting the deposit which Albert has confided to you, since the laws do not permit you to dispose of it in my favor."

"Nothing can deprive you of a dowry and title which Albert's last will has placed at your disposal."

"Then nothing can prevent me renouncing them, and I do renounce them. Albert knew well that I neither wished to be rich nor a countess."

"But the world does not authorize you to renounce them."

"The world, madam! Well, that is precisely what I wished to speak to you about. The world would not understand the affection of Albert, nor the condescension of his family toward a poor girl like me. They would consider it a reproach to his memory and a stain upon your life. They would esteem it both ridiculous and shameful on my part; for, I repeat it, the world would understand nothing of what has here passed between us. The world, therefore, ought always to remain ignorant of it, madam, as your domestics are ignorant of it; for my master and the doctor, the only confidants, the only witnesses of that secret marriage, who are not of your own family, have not yet divulged it and will not divulge it. I can answer for the former; you can and ought to assure yourself of the discretion of the latter. Live tranquil then, madam, on this point. It will depend upon yourself alone to bury this secret in the tomb, and never by my act shall the Baroness Amelia suspect that I have the honor to be her cousin. Forget, therefore, the last hour of Count Albert's existence; it is for me to remember it, to bless him and be silent. You have tears enough to shed without my adding to them the mortification you must feel in recalling my existence as the widow of your admirable child!"

"Consuelo! my daughter!" cried the canoness, sobbing, "remain with us! You have a lofty soul and a great heart! Do not leave us again!"

"That would be the dearest wish of this heart which is all devotion to you," replied Consuelo, receiving her caresses with emotion; "but I could not do it without our secret being betrayed or guessed, which is the same thing, and I know that the honor of your family is dearer to you than life. Allow me, by tearing myself from your arms without delay and without hesitation, to render you the only service in my power."

The tears which the canoness shed at the termination of this scene, relieved her from the dreadful weight that oppressed her. They were the first that she had been able to shed since the death of her nephew. She accepted the sacrifice which Consuelo made, and the confidence which she placed in her resolutions proved that she at last appreciated that noble character. She left it to her to communicate them to the chaplain and to come to an understanding with Supperville and Porpora upon the necessity of forever keeping silence on the subject.