"Away," said she, "messenger of misfortune! away, poor innocent bearer of letters which are guilty and criminal! I shall not, perhaps, have courage to reply to a last farewell. Perhaps I should not suffer him to know that I regret and mourn for him."
She took refuge in the music-room, to escape from the tempting bird, which, used to a better reception hovered about, and angrily tapped at the window-sill. She sat at her piano to drown the cries and reproaches of her favorite, who had followed her to the window of the room, and she felt something like the anguish of a mother when she will not hear the cries and complaints of a penitent child. It was not because of the red-throat that Consuelo now suffered. The note under the bird's wing spoke most appealingly. This was the voice Which, to our romantic recluse, seemed to lament at not being heard.
She did not yield. It is, however, in the nature of love to become angry and return to the assault, becoming more imperious and triumphant after every victory. Without metaphor may it be said, that to resist is to supply him with new arms. About three o'clock Matteus came in with a basket of flowers, which he brought his prisoner every day, (he loved her kind and gentle deportment), and as usual she unbound them to arrange them herself in the beautiful vase on the console. This was one of her prison pleasures. On this occasion, however, she was less awake to it, and attended to it mechanically, as if to kill time. In untying a bundle of narcissi which was in the centre of the package of perfumes, a letter without any direction fell out. In vain did she seek to persuade herself that it came from the tribunal of the Invisibles. Would Matteus in such a case have been its bearer? Unfortunately Matteus was not by to give any explanations. It was necessary to ring for him. Five minutes would be necessary ere he could return, and it might be ten. Consuelo had exhibited too much courage towards the red-throat to be able to resist the bouquet. The letter was being read when Matteus returned. Consuelo had reached the postscript:—
"Do not question Matteus; for he is ignorant of the disobedience I make him commit."
Matteus was merely asked to wind up the clock, which had stopped.
The Chevalier's letter was more passionate, more impetuous, than the others. In its delirium it was even imperious. We will not copy it. Love-letters are powerless, except to the persons to whom they are directed. In themselves they are all alike. All who are in love find, in the object of their attraction, an irresistible power and incomparable novelty. No one fancies he is loved as another is, or in the same manner. All fancy themselves most loved of any who live. Where this strange blindness, this proud fascination, does not exist, there is no passion. Passion had seized on the calm, quiet, and noble mind of Consuelo.
The Chevalier's note disturbed all her ideas. He implored an interview, and urged the necessity of using the few moments which remained. He feigned to believe Consuelo had loved Albert, and that she yet loved him. He pretended to be willing to submit to her decree, and in the interim asked only a moment of pity, a tear of regret. This "last appearance" of a great artiste is always followed by many others.
Consuelo, though sad, was yet devoured by a secret joy, burning and involuntary, at the idea of an interview. She felt her forehead blush and her bosom palpitate, for she knew that in spite of herself she had committed adultery. She saw that her resolution and her will did not protect her from an inconceivable influence, and that if the Chevalier resolved to break his vow, by speaking to her and showing his features, as he seemed determined to do, she would not be able to prevent this violation of the laws of the invisible tribunal. She had but one refuge—to implore the tribunal's aid. But could she accuse and betray Leverani? Would the worthy old man who had revealed Albert's existence, and paternally received her confessions on the previous evening, receive this also under the seal of confession. He would pity the Chevalier's madness, and would condemn him only in the silence of his heart. Consuelo wrote that she wished to see him at nine in the evening of that day, and enjoined him on his honor, his repose and peace of mind to meet her. This was the hour at which the stranger said he would come. But by whom could she send this letter? Matteus would not go a foot out of the enclosure before midnight; such were his orders, he had been severely reprimanded for not having always punctually obeyed his orders in relation to the prisoner. Henceforth he would be inflexible.
The hour drew near, and Consuelo, though she sought in every way to avoid the fatal test, had not thought of any means of resisting it. Compulsory female virtue will ever be but a mere name unless half of the stain of its violation rests on the man! Every plan of defence becomes a mere subterfuge: every immolation of personal happiness fails, when opposed to the fear of reducing the object of affection to despair. Consuelo resolved on one resource, a suggestion of the heroism and weakness which divided her heart. She began to look for the mysterious opening of the cavern which was in the house, resolving to hurry through it, and at any risk to present herself before the Invisibles. She had fancied, gratuitously enough, that their place of meeting was accessible when she had once discovered the mouth of the passage, and that they met every night at the same place. She was not aware that on that day they were all absent, and that Leverani alone had returned, after having pretended to accompany them on their mysterious excursion.
All her efforts to discover the secret door or trap were useless. She had not now as at Spandau, the sang froid, the perseverance necessary to discover the smallest fissure in the wall, the least protruding stone. Her hands trembled as she examined the paneling and hangings, and her sight became disturbed. Every moment she seemed to hear the sound of the step of the Chevalier on the garden walks, or on the marble portico.