"Certainly not."
"And think you death has broken all bonds forever? Do you owe to Albert's memory neither respect, love, nor fidelity?"
Consuelo blushed and became troubled. The idea that, like Cagliostro and the Count Saint Germain, they were about to talk of Albert's resurrection, filled her with such terror that she could not reply.
"Wife of Albert Podiebrad," said the examiner, "your silence accuses you. Albert to you is dead, and in your eyes the marriage was but an incident in your adventurous life, without consequence and without obligation. Zingara, you may go. We are interested in your fate only on account of your union with one of the best of men. You are unworthy of our love, having been unworthy of his. We do not regret the liberty we gave you, for the reparation of the wrongs inflicted by despotism is one of our duties and pleasures. Our protection will go no further. To-morrow you will quit the asylum we provided for you, with the hope that you would leave it purified and sanctified. You will return to the world, to the chimera of glory, to the intoxication of foolish passions. God have mercy on you! for we abandon you forever."
For some moments Consuelo was terrified by the decree. A few days sooner, she would have accepted it without a word; but the phrase foolish passion, which had been pronounced, recalled to her mind the mad love she had conceived for the stranger, and which she had hugged to her heart almost without examination and scrutiny.
She was humbled in her own eyes, and the sentence of the Invisibles appeared to her, to a certain extent, to be deserved. The sternness of their words filled her with mingled respect and terror, and she thought no more of contending against the right they claimed to condemn her as a dependant of their authority. It is seldom that, great as our natural pride may be, or irreproachable as may be our life, we do not feel the influence of a grave charge made unexpectedly against us, and instead of contesting it, look into our hearts to see whether we deserve censure or not. Consuelo did not feel free from reproach, and the theatrical effect displayed around her, made her situation painful and strange. But she soon remembered that she had not appeared before the tribunal without being prepared to submit to its rigor. She had come thither resolved to submit to admonition or any punishment necessary to procure the exculpation or pardon of the Chevalier. Laying aside, then, all her self-love, she submitted to their reproaches, and for some minutes thought what she should say.
"It is possible," said she, "that I merit this stern censure, for I am far from being satisfied with myself. When I came hither, I had formed an idea of the Invisibles which I wish to express. The little I have learned from popular rumor of your order, and the boon of liberty you have restored to me, have led me to think that you were men perfect in virtue as you were powerful in society. If you be what I have believed you, why repel me so sternly, without pointing out the road for me to avoid error and become worthy of your protection? I know that on account of Albert of Rudolstadt, who as you say was one of the most excellent of men, his widow was entitled to some consideration. But even were I not the widow of Albert, or had I always been unworthy of him, the Zingara Consuelo, a woman without name, family, or country, has some claims on your paternal solicitude. Allow that I have been a great sinner, are you not like the kingdom of heaven, where the repentance of a guilty one gives greater joy than the constancy of hundreds of the elect? In fine, if the law which unites you be a divine law, you violate it when you repel me. You had undertaken, you said, to purify and sanctify me. Try to elevate my soul to the dignity of your own. Prove to me that you are holy, by appearing patient and merciful, and I will accept you as my masters and models."
There was a moment of silence, and they seemed to consult together. At last one of them spoke.
"Consuelo, you came hither full of pride, why do you not retire thus? We had the right to censure, because you came to question us. We have no right to chain your conscience and take possession of your life, unless you abandoned both to us freely. Can we ask you for this sacrifice? You do not know us. The tribunal, the holiness of which you invoke, is perhaps the most perverse, or at least the most audacious, which ever acted in the dark against the principles which rule the world. What know you of it? Were we to reveal to you the profound science of an entirely new virtue, would you have courage to consecrate yourself to so long and arduous a study without being aware of its object? Could we have confidence in the perseverance of a neophyte so badly prepared as yourself? Perhaps we might have weighty secrets to confide to you, and we would depend for their security only on your generous instincts. We know you well enough to confide in your discretion. We do not seek discreet confidants, for we have no want of them. To advance God's law we need fervent disciples, free from all prejudices, from all egotism, from all frivolous passions and worldly desires. Look into yourself and see if you can make these sacrifices. Can you control your actions and regulate your life in obedience to your instincts, and on the principles we will give you to develop? Woman, artist, girl, dare you reply that you can associate yourself with stern men to toil in the work of ages?"
"What you say is serious indeed," said Consuelo, "and I scarcely understand it. Will you give me time to think? Do not repel me from your bosom until I shall have questioned my heart. I know not if it be worthy of the light you can shed on it. But what sincere heart is unworthy of the truth? In what can I be useful to you? I am terrified at my impotence. To have protected me as you have done, you must have seen there was something in me. Something, too, says to me, that I should not leave you without having sought to prove my gratitude. Do not banish me then. Try to instruct me."