Leverani did persist. He continued to write, and was eloquent, persuasive, and sincere in his humility.
"You make an appeal to my pride," said he, "yet I exhibit no pride to you. If in my arms you regretted an absent person, I would suffer, but would not be offended. I would ask you, as I lay at your feet and watered them with tears, to forget him and trust yourself to me alone. Howsoever you love me, how little soever it may be, I will be grateful as if for an immense blessing."
Such was the substance of a series of ardent and timid, submissive and persevering letters.
Consuelo felt her pride give way before the penetrating charm of a true love. Insensibly she grew used to the idea that none had loved her before, not even the Count of Rudolstadt. Repulsing, then, the voluntary outrage she had fancied was made on the sanctity of her recollections, she feared lest by exhibiting it, she might become an obstacle to the happiness Albert promised himself from a new love. She resolved, then, to submit quietly to the decree of a separation, which he seemed determined to enforce the Invisibles to make, and abstained from writing his name in her letters to the stranger, whom she bade be equally prudent.
In other matters their letters were full of prudence and delicacy. Consuelo, in separating herself from Albert, and in receiving into her soul the idea of another affection, was unwilling to yield to a blind intoxication. She forbade the Chevalier to see her, or violate his oath of silence until it had been removed by the Invisibles. She declared that freely and voluntarily she wished to adhere to the mysterious association which inspired her with respect and confidence. She was determined to be initiated in their doctrines, and to defend herself from every personal engagement, until, by something of virtue, she had acquired the right to think of her own happiness. She had not power to tell him that she did not love him; but was able to say that she would not love him without reflection.
Leverani appeared to submit, and Consuelo studied attentively many volumes which Matteus had given her one day from the Prince, saying that his highness and the court had left the castle, but that she would soon have news of him. She was satisfied with this message, and asked Matteus no questions. She read the history of the mysteries of antiquity, of Christianity, and of the different sects and secret societies derived from each. This was a very learned manuscript compilation, made in the library of the order of the Invisibles, by some learned and conscientious adept. This serious and laborious study at first occupied not a little of her attention and even of her imagination. The picture of the tests of the ancient Egyptian temples gave rise to many terrible and poetic dreams. The story of the persecution of sects, during the middle ages, and during the period of revival, excited her heart more than ever; and this history of enthusiasm prepared her soul for the religious fanaticism of a speedy initiation. For fifteen days she had no information from home, and lived in seclusion, surrounded by the mysterious care of the Chevalier, but firm in her resolution not to see him, and not to inspire him with too much hope.
The summer heat began to be felt, and Consuelo, being absorbed by her studies, could rest and breathe freely only in the cool of the evening. Gradually, she had resumed her slow and dreamy walks in the garden and enclosures. She thought herself alone, yet vague emotions made her often fancy that the stranger was not far from her. Those beautiful nights, the glorious shades, the solitude, the languishing murmur of the running water amid the flowers, the perfume of plants, the passionate song of the nightingale, followed by yet more voluptuous silence—the moon casting its broad, oblique light beneath the transparent shadows of the sweet nurseries, the setting of Hesperus behind the horizon's roseate clouds—all these classical but eternal emotions, ever fresh and mighty with youth and love, immersed the soul of Consuelo in dangerous reveries. Her thin shadow on the silvery garden walks, the flight of a bird aroused by her step, the rustling of a leaf agitated by the wind, sufficed to increase her pace. These slight terrors were scarcely dissipated when they were replaced by an indefinable regret, and the palpitations of expectation were more powerful than all the suggestions of her will.
Once she was more disturbed than usual by the rustling of the leaves and the uncertain sounds of the night. She fancied some one walked not far from her, and when she sat down she thought the sound came nearer her. Agitation aroused her still more, as she felt herself powerless to resist an interview in those beautiful places and beneath that magnificent sky. The breath of the breeze seemed to burn her cheek. She fled to the house and shut herself up in her room. The candles were not yet lighted. She placed herself behind a jalousie, and anxiously wished to see him by whom she could not be seen. She saw a man appear, and advance slowly beneath her windows. He approached silently and without a gesture, and submissively appeared satisfied in gazing on the walls within which she dwelt. This man was the Chevalier, at least Consuelo in her anxiety thought so, and fancied that she recognised his bearing and gait. Strange and painful doubts and fears, however, soon took possession of her mind. This silent muser recalled Albert to her mind as much as he did Leverani. They were of the same stature, now that Albert was invigorated with health, and could walk at ease without his head hanging on his bosom, or resting on his hand, in an unhealthy or sad manner. Consuelo could scarcely distinguish him from the Chevalier. She had seen the latter for a moment by daylight walking before her and wrapped up in the folds of his cloak. She had seen Albert for a few moments in the deserted tower, and thought him entirely different from what she had seen him before. Now that she saw by starlight either the one or the other, she was about to resolve all her doubts; but the object passed beneath some shadow, and like a shadow flitted away. At length it entirely disappeared, and Consuelo was divided between joy and fear, charging herself with want of courage in not having called Albert's name at all hazards, and asked for an explanation.
This repentance became more keen as the object withdrew, and as the persuasion that it was Albert broke on her. Led away by this habit of devotion, which had, so far as he was concerned, always occupied the place of love, she thought if he thus wandered around her it was in the timid hope of talking with her. It was not the first time he had sought to do so. She had said so to Trenck one evening, when perhaps he had passed Leverani in the dark. Consuelo determined to bring about this necessary explanation. Her conscience required that she should clear up all doubts in relation to the true disposition of a husband, whether it was generous or volatile. She went down to the garden, and ran after the mysterious visitor, trembling yet courageous; but she searched through the whole of the enclosure without finding him.
At length she saw, on the verge of a thicket, a man standing close to the water. Was this the person she sought for? She called him by the name of Albert, and he trembled and passed his hands over his face. When he removed them, the black mask was there.