Though Karl had told her to ring for him as soon as she was up, she was unwilling to disturb him, thinking he needed a longer sleep than she did. She was also afraid to awaken her other companion, whose fatigue must have been excessive. She then went into the room next to her chamber, and instead of the meal which she left on the previous evening, there was a collection of books and writing materials.
The books did not tempt her. She was far too much agitated to use them. But amid all her perplexity, she was delighted at being able to retrace the events of the previous night. Gradually the idea suggested itself, as she was yet kept in solitary confinement, to continue her journal, and she wrote the following preamble on a loose sheet:—
"Dear Beppo—For you alone I resume the story of my strange adventures. Accustomed to speak to you with the expansion of heart inspired by the conformity of ages and ideas, I can confide to you emotions my other friends would not understand, and would perhaps judge more severely. This commencement will tell you that I do not feel myself free from error. I have erred in my own opinion, but as yet I cannot appreciate the consequences.
"Joseph, before I tell you bow I escaped from Spandau, (which indeed appears trifling compared with what now occupies me), I must tell you... How can I? I do not know myself. Have I dreamed? I know that my heart burns and my brain quivers as if it would rush from me and take possession of another frame. I will tell you the story simply; for the whole truth, my friend, is contained in the simple phrase—I love!
"I love a stranger! a man, the sound of whose voice I have never heard! You will say this is folly. You are right; for love is but systematic folly. Listen, Joseph, and do not doubt that my happiness surpasses all the illusions of my first love, and that my ecstacy is too intoxicating to permit me to be ashamed at having so madly assented and foolishly placed my love, that I know not if I will be loved in return. Ah! I am loved! I feel it so well! Be certain that I am not mistaken; that now I love truly—I may say, madly! Why not? Does not love come from God? It does not depend on us to kindle it in our hearts, as we light a torch at the altar. All my efforts to love Albert, (whose name I now tremble to write,) were not sufficient to enkindle that ardent and pure flame. Since I lost him I loved his memory better than I ever did his person. Who knows how I could love him, were he restored to me again?"
Scarcely had Consuelo written these last words than she effaced them, not so much that they might not be read, as to shake off a feeling of horror at having ever suffered them to enter her mind. She was greatly excited, and the truth of the inspiration of love betrayed itself in spite of her wishes, in all her inmost thoughts. In vain she wished to continue to write, that she might more fully explain to herself the mystery of her heart. She found nothing that could more distinctly render its delicate shades than the words, "Who knows how I could love him, were he restored to me?"
Consuelo could be false. She had fancied that she loved the memory of a dead man with real love; but she now felt life overflowing in her heart, and a real passion take the place of an imaginary one.
She sought to read again all that she had written, and thus to recover from her disorder of mind. But it was in vain. Despairing of being able to enjoy calm enough to control herself, and aware that the effort would give her a fever, she crushed the sheet she had written in her hands, and threw it on the table until she might be able to burn it. Trembling like a criminal, with her face in a blaze, she paid attention to nothing, except that she loved, and that henceforth she could not doubt it. Some one knocked at the door of her room, and she went to admit Karl. His face was heated, his eyes haggard, and his jaws hanging. She thought him over-fatigued; but from his answers, soon saw that he had drank, in honor of his safe arrival, too much of his host's wine. This was Karl's only defect. One dram made him as confident as possible; another made him terrible.
He talked of the Chevalier, who seemed the only subject on his mind. He was so good, so kind. He made Karl sit down, instead of waiting at the table. He had insisted on his sharing his meal, and had poured out the best wine for him, ringing his glass with him, and holding up his head, as if he were a true Sclave.
"What a pity he is an Italian! He deserves to be a real Bohemian; for he carries wine as well as I do," said Karl.