[CHAPTER XXIII]
A few moments afterwards Karl returned with a letter, the writing of which was unknown to Consuelo. It ran as follows:—
"I leave you, perhaps never to see you again. I relinquish three days I might pass with you—three days, the like of which I shall perhaps never see again. I renounce them voluntarily. I should do so. You will one day appreciate the sacrifice I make, and its purity.
"Yes, I love you—I love you madly, though I know no more of you than you do of me. Do not thank me for what I have done. I obeyed supreme instructions, and accomplished the orders with which I am charged. Attribute to me nothing but the love I entertain for you, which I can prove in no other manner than by leaving you. This love is as ardent as it has been respectful. It will be durable as it has been sudden and unexpected. I have scarcely seen your face; I know nothing of your life; yet I felt that my soul belonged to you, and that I can never resume it. Had your past conduct been as sullied as your present seems pure, you would not to me be less respectable and dear. I leave you, with my heart agitated with pride, joy, and bitterness. You love me! How could I support the idea of losing you, if the terrible will which disposes of both of us, so ordained it? I know not. At this moment, in spite of my terror, I cannot be unhappy. I am too much intoxicated with your love and mine to suffer. Were I to seek in vain for you during my whole life, I would not complain because I have seen you and received a kiss from you, condemning me to eternal sorrow. Neither can I lose the hope of meeting you some day; even though it were for a single moment, and though I had no other evidence of your love than the kiss so purely given and returned, I would feel myself a thousand times happier than I ever was before I knew you.
"And now, dear girl, poor, troubled being, recall, without shame and without terror, the brief and heavenly moments in which you felt my love transfused into your heart. You have said love comes to us from God, and we cannot ourselves stifle or enkindle it. Were I unworthy of you the sudden inspiration which forced you to return my embrace would not be less heavenly. The Providence that protects you, would not consent that the treasure of my love should fall on a vain and false heart. Were I ungrateful, as far as you are concerned, it would only be a noble mind led astray, a precious inspiration lost. I adore you; and whatever you may be in other respects, you had nothing to do with the illusion, when you fancied that I loved you. You were not profaned by the beating of my heart—by the support of my arm—by the touch of my lips. Our mutual confidence, and blind faith, have at once exalted us to that sublime abandon justified by long attachment. Why regret you? I am well aware there is something terrible in that fatality which impels us to each other. It is the will of God. Do you see it? We cannot be mistaken. You bear away with you my terrible secret. Keep it wholly to yourself—confide it to no one. Beppo, perhaps, will not comprehend it. Whoever that friend may be, I alone venerate your folly and respect your weakness, for this folly and weakness are mine. Adieu! This may be an eternal adieu, yet, as the world says, I am free, and so too are you. I love you alone, and know you do not love another. Our fate is not our own. I am bound by eternal vows, and so too will you be ere long. At least you will be in the power of the Invisibles, and from them there is no appeal. Adieu, then. . . . My bosom is torn, but God will give me power to accomplish my sacrifice, and even a more rigorous one yet, if such there be. Great God! have pity on me."
This unsigned letter was in a painful and counterfeited hand.
"Karl," said Consuelo, pale and trembling; "did the Chevalier give you this?"
"Yes, signora."
"And wrote it himself?"
"Yes, signora; and not without pain. His right hand was wounded."