"No; I will write. No; tell him I would see him an instant, to thank him and press his hand. Be quick; I fear he has gone already."
Karl left, and Consuelo soon regretted having sent the message. She said to herself that the stranger had never come near her, except in a case of absolute necessity, and had doubtless an affiliation with the strange and whimsical Invisibles. She resolved to write to him; but she had scarcely written and effaced a few words, when a slight noise made her look up. She saw a panel of the woodwork slide, and discovered there was thus a communication between the room in which she had written and the Chevalier's chamber. The panel was only opened wide enough for a gloved hand to be passed, and which seemed to beckon to Consuelo. She rushed forward, saying, "The other hand—the wounded hand." The stranger then withdrew behind the panel so that she could not see him. He then passed out his right hand, of which Consuelo took possession, and untying the ligature, saw that the cut was severe and deep. She pressed her lips on the linen and taking from her bosom the filagré cross, put it in the blood-stained hand. "Here," said she, "is the most precious thing I possess on earth. It is all I have, and never has been separated from me. I never loved any one before well enough to confide to them this treasure. Keep it till we meet——"
The stranger drew the hand of Consuelo behind the wood-work which concealed him, and covered it with kisses. Then, when he heard Karl's steps coming to deliver his message, he pushed it back, and shut the paneling. Consuelo heard the sound of a bolt: she listened in vain, expecting to catch the sound of the stranger's voice. He either spoke in a low tone or had gone.
A few minutes afterwards, Karl returned to Consuelo. "He has gone," said he, sadly, "without saying farewell, but filling my pockets with I know not how many ducats, for the unexpected expenses of our voyage, our regular ones being provided for, as he said—at the expense of the powers above or below, it matters not. There is a little man in black there, who never opens his mouth, except to give orders in a clear dry tone, and who does not please me at all. He replaces the Chevalier, and I will have the honor of his company on the box, a circumstance which does not promise me a very merry conversation. Poor chevalier! may he be restored to us."
"But are we obliged to go with the little man in black?"
"We could not be more under compulsion, signora. The Chevalier made me swear I would obey the stranger as himself. Well, signora, here is your dinner. You must not slight it, for it looks well. We will start at night, then: henceforth, we may stop only where we please—whether at the behest of the powers above or below, I know not."
Consuelo, downcast and terrified, paid no attention to Karl's gossip. She was uneasy about nothing relating to her voyage or her new guide. All became indifferent from the moment the dear stranger left. A prey to profound sadness, she sought mechanically to please Karl, by tasting some of his dishes. Being, however, more anxious to weep than to eat, she asked for a cup of coffee to give her some physical strength and courage. The coffee was brought her. "See, signora, the little man would prepare it himself, to be sure that it was excellent, he looks like an old valet-de-chambre or steward, and, after all, is not so black as he seems. I think he is not such a bad man, though he does not like to talk. He gave me some brandy, at least a hundred years old, the best I ever tasted. If you try a little, you will find it much better than this coffee."
"Drink, Karl, anything you please, and do not disturb me," said Consuelo, swallowing the coffee, the quality of which she scarcely observed.
Scarcely had she left the table when she felt her head become extremely heavy. When Karl came to say the carriage was ready, he found her asleep in the chair. "Give me your arm," she said, "I cannot sustain myself. I think I have a fever."
She was so crushed, that she saw only confusedly the carriage, her new guide, and the keeper of the house, whom Karl could induce to accept of nothing. As soon as she was en route, she fell asleep. The carriage had been filled up with cushions, like a bed, and thenceforward Consuelo was aware of nothing. She did not know the length of her journey or even the hour of the day or night, whether she travelled uninterruptedly or not. Once or twice she saw Karl at the door, and could comprehend neither his questions nor his terror. It seemed to her that the little man felt her pulse, and made her swallow a refreshing drink, saying, "This is nothing; madame is doing very well." She was indisposed and overcome, and could not keep her heavy eyelids open, nor was her mind sufficiently active to enable her to observe what passed around her. The more she slept, the more she seemed to wish to. She did not even seek to ask if she was sick or not, and she could only say to Karl again what she had finished with before. "Let me alone, good Karl."