She sought how she could occupy her time in a useful manner, to anticipate the new moral education announced to her; and for the first time since she had been at ****, she went into the library, which she had as yet only looked at in a cursory manner, and resolved to examine seriously the selection of books at her disposal. They were not numerous, but were extremely curious, and probably rare, if not unique. There was a collection of the writings of the most remarkable philosophers of all ages and nations, abridged so as to contain only the very essence of their doctrines, and translated into languages Consuelo could read. Many, never having been published, were in manuscript, particularly the heretical writers of the middle ages, precious spoils of the past, fragments and even complete copies of which had escaped the search of the Inquisition and the later violations of the old castles of the German heretics, during the Thirty Years' War. Consuelo could not appreciate the value of these philosophical treasures, collected by some ardent and persevering bibliographer. The originals would have interested her, on account of their characters and vignettes. She had, however, only a translation, made carefully by some modern calligrapher. She looked first for the faithful translations of Wickliffe, John Huss, and the renowned Christian philosophers who attached themselves in other days, though at different eras, to those fathers of the new religion.
She had not read them, but they were familiar to her from her long conversations with Albert. As she turned over the leaves in a cursory manner, she became better and better acquainted with them. Consuelo had an eminently philosophical mind. Had she not lived amid the reasoning and clear-sighted world of her day, she would easily have become superstitious and fanatical. As it was, she understood the enthusiastic discourses of Gottlieb better than Voltaire's philosophy, then studied so ardently by the women of Europe. This intelligent and simple girl was courageous and tender, but had not a mind formed for subtle reasoning. She was educated by the heart, rather than the head. Seizing the revelations of sentiment by prompt assimilation, she was capable of being instructed philosophically. She was wonderfully so for her age, sex, and position, from the instruction of the eloquent and loved Albert. Artistic organizations acquire more in the emotions of an address or lecture, than in the cold and patient study of books. Such was Consuelo. She could scarcely read a page attentively, yet, if a great thought, glowingly expressed, struck her, she repeated it like a musical phrase, and the sense, however profound it might be, entered her mind like a divine ray. She existed on this idea, and applied it to all her emotions. This was to her a real power, and lasted her through life. To her it was not a vain sentence, but a rule of conduct, an armor for combat. Why analyse and study the book whence she had got it? The whole book was in her breast as soon as the inspiration, seized her.
Her destiny required her to do nothing more. She did not pretend to claim a knowledge of the world of philosophy. She felt the warmth of the secret revelations which have been granted to poetic souls when in love. In this disposition she looked for several days over books, without reading anything. She could give an account of nothing; more than one page, however, in which she had read but one line, was bedewed with tears, and she often hurried to her piano, to improvise songs, the tenderness and grandeur of which were the burning and spontaneous expression of her generous emotion.
A whole week rolled over her, in a solitude which Matteus' association did not trouble. She had resolved not to address the least question to him, and perhaps he had been scolded for his indiscretion, for he was now as silent as he had been prolix heretofore. The red-throat came to see Consuelo every day, but without Gottlieb. It seemed this tiny being (Consuelo was half inclined to think it enchanted) came at regular hours to amuse her, and returned punctually at noon to its other friend. In fact, there was nothing wonderful about it. Animals at liberty have certain customs, and make a regular disposition of their time, with more foresight and intelligence than domestic animals. One day Consuelo observed that it appeared constrained and impatient, and that it did not fly so gracefully as usual. Instead of perching on her fingers, it thought of nothing but pecking with its nails and bill at an irritating impediment. Consuelo approached him, and saw a black thread hanging from its wing. The poor creature had been taken in a snare, she thought, and had escaped only by its address, bearing off with it a portion of its chain. She had no difficulty in removing it, yet had not a little in taking off a piece of silken thread, adroitly fastened on the back, and which held under the left wing a silken bag of some very thin material. In this bag she found a letter, written in almost imperceptible characters, on such thin paper that she feared to break it by a breath. At the first glance she saw it was a message from the dear unknown. It contained but these few words:—
"A great task has been confided to me, in the hope that the pleasure of doing it well would calm the uneasiness of my passion. Nothing, not even the exercise of my charity, can distract the soul of which you are the mistress. I accomplished my task in less time than you would think possible. I am back again, and love you more than ever. Our sky is growing brighter. I do not know what has passed between you and them, but they seem more favorable, and my love is no longer treated as a crime, but merely as a mischance—a misfortune. Ah! they do not know me! They know not that I cannot be unhappy with your love. But you do. Tell it to the red-throat of Spandau. It is the same. I brought it here in my bosom. May he repay me for all my trouble by bringing me a message from you. Gottlieb will deliver it faithfully to me, without looking at it."
Mysterious and romantic circumstances enflame the fire of love. Consuelo experienced the most violent temptation to reply. The fear of displeasing the Invisibles, the scruple of not violating her promises, had but little influence on her, we must own. When she thought that she might be discovered, and cause a new exile of the Chevalier, she had courage enough to resist. She released the red-throat, without one word in reply, but not without tears at the sorrow and disappointment her lover would experience at her having acted with such severity.
She sought to resume her studies, but neither study nor music appeared to dissipate the agitation which had boiled in her bosom, since she knew the Chevalier was near her. She could not refrain from hoping that he would disobey the Invisibles, and that she would see him some evening glide beneath the flowery bushes of the garden. She was unwilling to encourage him, however, to show himself. All the evening she was shut up, looking, with a beating heart, through the window, yet determined not to reply to his call. She did not see him appear, and exhibited as much grief and surprise as if she had relied on a temerity which she would have blamed, and which would have awakened all her terrors. All the little mysterious dramas of young and burning love were formed in her bosom in the course of a few hours. It was a new phase of emotions, unknown hitherto to her. She had often, at evening, waited for Anzoleto on the canals of Venice, or on the terraces of the Corte Minelli; yet when she did so, she thought over her morning's lesson, and repeated the rosary-prayers, to while away the time, without fear, trembling, or sorrow. This childish love was so closely united to friendship, that it bore no relation to what she now experienced for Leverani. On the next day she waited anxiously for the red-throat, which did not come. Had he been seized en route by some stern Argus? Might not the fatigue of the silken girdle and heavy burden have prevented him from coming? His instinct, however, would teach him that Consuelo had on the evening before released him, and he would perhaps return to her, to receive the same service.
Consuelo wept all day long. She, who had no tears for great misfortunes, who had not shed one while she was a prisoner at Spandau, felt crushed and burned up by the sufferings of her love, and sought in vain for the strength which had sustained her in all the other evils of life.
One evening she forced herself to play on the piano, and while doing so, two black figures appeared at the door of the music room, without her having heard them ascend. She could not repress a cry of terror at the apparition of these spectres, but one of them, in a voice gentler than before, said, "Follow us." She got up in silence to obey them. They gave her a silken bandage, saying, "Cover your eyes, and swear that you will do so honestly. Swear also that if this bandage fall, or become deranged, that you will close your eyes until we bid you open them."
Consuelo said—"I swear."