Many days rolled by, without Consuelo seeing anything of her hosts, and without her eyes falling on the features of any individual; Matteus yet wearing his mask, which, perhaps, was more agreeable than his face.
The worthy servitor attended on her with a zeal and punctuality for which she could not be too thankful. He annoyed her terribly, however, by his conversation, which she was forced to submit to, for he refused positively and stoically every present she offered him, and she had no other way to exhibit her gratitude than by suffering him to gossip. He was passionately fond of the use of his tongue, a thing especially remarkable, from the fact that his very employment required the most absolute reserve, which he never laid aside. He possessed the art of touching on many subjects, without ever referring to forbidden matters. Consuelo was informed how much the kitchen-garden of the castle produced every year—the quantity of carrots, of asparagus,&c.—how many fawns were dropped in the park, the history of the swans in the lake, the number of pheasants, and the details of harvest. Not one word was said to enable her to understand in what country she was, if the owners of the castle were absent or present, if she was ever to see them, or was to remain for an indefinite time in the pavilion. In a word, nothing that really interested her, ever escaped from the prudent though busy lips of Matteus. She fancied she would have violated all propriety, had she come even within ear-shot of the gardener or servant-girl, who, moreover, came early in the morning and disappeared almost immediately after she got up. She restricted herself to looking from time to time across the park, without seeing any one, and watching the outlines of the castle, which was illuminated with a few lights, which, by-the-bye, were soon extinguished.
She soon relapsed into a state of deep melancholy, which, she had vigorously striven against at Spandau. These feelings attacked her in this rich abode, where she had all the luxuries of life around her. Can any one of the blessings of life really be enjoyed alone? Prolonged solitude wearies us of the most beautiful objects, and fills the strongest mind with terror. Consuelo soon found the hospitality of the Invisibles as annoying as it was strange, and intense disgust took possession of all her faculties. Her noble piano seemed to sound too loudly through the vast and echoing rooms, and she became afraid of the sound of her own voice. When she ventured to sing, if she were surprised by twilight, she thought she heard the echoes reply angrily to her, and fancied she saw flitting around the silk-hung walls and silent tapestry, uneasy shadows, which faded away when she sought to watch them, and hid themselves behind the hangings, whence they mocked, imitated, and made faces at her. All this was but the effect of the evening breeze, rustling amid the leaves, or the vibration of her own voice around her. Her imagination, weary of questioning the mute witnesses of her ennui—the statues, pictures, and Japan vases, filled with flowers, and the gorgeous mirrors—became the victim of a strange terror, like the anticipation of some unknown misfortune. She remembered the strange power attributed to the Invisibles by the vulgar, the apprehensions with which Cagliostro had filled her mind, the appearance of la balayeuse in the palace at Berlin, and the wonderful promises of Saint Germain in relation to the resurrection of Albert. She said all these unexplained matters were perhaps the consequence of the secret action of the Invisibles in society, and on her particular fate. She had no faith in their supernatural power, but she saw they used every means to acquire influence over the minds of men, by attacking the imagination through promises and menaces, terror or seductions. She was then under the influence of some formidable revelation or cruel mystification, and, like a cowardly child, was afraid at being so timid.
At Spandau she had aroused her will against external perils and real suffering: she had triumphed, by means of courage, over all, and there resignation seemed natural to her. The gloomy appearance of the fortress harmonized with the solemn meditations of solitude, while in her new prison all seemed formed for a life of poetical enjoyment or peaceful friendship. The eternal silence, the absence of all sympathy, destroyed the harmony, like a monstrous violation of common sense. One might have compared it to the delicious retreat of two lovers, or an accomplished family, become, from a loved hearthside, suddenly hated and deserted, on account of some painful rupture or sudden catastrophe. The many inscriptions which decorated it, and which were placed on every ornament, she did not laugh at now as mere puerilities. They were mingled encouragements and menaces, conditional eulogiums corrected by humiliating accusations. She could no longer look around her, without discovering some new sentence she had not hitherto remarked, and which seemed to keep her from breathing freely in this sanctuary of suspicious and vigilant justice. Her soul had retreated within itself since the crisis of her escape and instantaneous love for the stranger. The lethargic state which she had, beyond doubt, been intentionally thrown into, to conceal the locality of her abode, had produced a secret languor and a nervous excitability resulting from it. She therefore felt herself becoming both uneasy and careless, now terrified at nothing, and then indifferent about everything.
One evening she fancied that she heard the almost imperceptible sound of a distant orchestra. She went on the terrace, and saw the castle appearing beyond the foliage in a blaze of light. A symphony, lofty and clear, distinctly reached her. The contrast between a festival and her isolation touched her deeply; more so than she was willing to own. So long a time had elapsed since she had exchanged a word with rational or intelligent beings, for the first time in her life she was anxious to join in a concert or ball, and wished, like Cinderella, that some fairy would waft her through the air into one of the windows of the enchanted palace, even if she were to remain there invisible, merely to look on persons animated by pleasure.
The moon was not yet up. In spite of the clearness of the sky, the shade beneath the trees was so dense, that Consuelo, had she been surrounded by invisible watchers, might have glided by. A violent temptation took possession of her, and all the specious reasons which curiosity suggests, when it seeks to assail our conscience, presented themselves to her mind. Had they treated her with confidence by dragging her insensible to this prison, which, though gilded, was severe? Had they the right to exact blind submission from her which they had not deigned to ask for? Besides, might they not seek to tempt and attract her by the simulation of a festival—all this might be, for all that related to the Invisibles was strange. Perhaps, in seeking to leave the enclosure she would find an open gate, or a boat which passed through some arch in the wall of the park. At this last fancy, the most gratuitous of all, she descended into the garden, resolved to tempt her fate. She had not gone more than fifty paces, when she heard in the air a sound similar to that produced by the wings of a gigantic bird, as it rises rapidly to the clouds. At the same time, she saw around her a vivid blue blaze, which after a few minutes was extinguished, to be reproduced with a sharp report. Consuelo then saw this was neither lightning nor a meteor, but the commencement of a display of fireworks at the castle. This entertainment promised her, from the top of the terrace a magnificent display, and like a child, anxious to shake off the ennui of a long punishment, she returned in haste to the pavilion.
By the blaze of these factitious lights, sometimes red and then blue, which filled the garden, she twice saw a black man standing erect and near her. She had scarcely time to look at him, when the luminous bomb falling with a shower of stars, left all more dark than ever, after the light which had dazzled her eyes. Consuelo then became terrified, and ran in a direction entirely opposite to that in which the spectre had appeared, but when the light returned, saw herself again within a few feet of him. At the third blaze, she had gained the door of the pavilion, but again found him before her and barring her passage. Seized with irrepressible terror, she cried aloud, and nearly swooned. She would have fallen backward from the steps, had not her mysterious visitor passed his arm around her waist. Scarcely had he touched her brow with his lips, than she became aware it was the stranger—the Chevalier—the one whom she loved, and by whom she was beloved.
[CHAPTER XXV]
The joy at finding him, like an angel of consolation in this insupportable solitude, silenced every fear that a moment before had filled her mind, though she entertained no hope of escape through him. She returned his embrace with passion, and as he tried to get loose from her arms to replace his black mask, which had fallen, she cried, "Do not leave me—do not desert me!" Her voice was supplicatory and her caresses irresistible. The stranger fell at her feet, concealing his face in the folds of her dress, which he kissed. He remained some time in a state half-way between pleasure and despair; then, taking up his mask, and placing a letter into Consuelo's hands, he hurried into the house, and disappeared, without her having been able to distinguish his features.