As she spoke the sibyl took off her mask and false hair, and revealed to Consuelo a female head, old and marked with suffering, it is true, but with incomparable beauty of outline, and a sublime expression of goodness, sadness, and power. These three so different habits of mind, and which are rarely united in the same person, were marked on the broad brow, in the maternal smile, the profound glance of the sibyl. The shape of her head and the lower part of her face announced great natural power, but the ravages of disease were too visible, and a kind of nervousness made her head tremble in a manner that recalled a dying Niobe, or rather Mary at the foot of the cross. Grey hair, fine and glossy as floss silk, was parted across her brow, and, bound in small folds around her temple, strangely completed her noble and striking appearance. At this epoch all women wore powder, with their curls gathered up behind, exhibiting their full foreheads. The sibyl had her hair braided in a less careful manner, to facilitate her disguise, not being aware that she adopted the one most in harmony with the cast and expression of her face. Consuelo looked for a long time at her with respect and admiration. At length, however, under the influence of great surprise, she cried out, seizing the sibyl's hands—
"My God! How much you resemble him!"
"Yes, I do resemble Albert; or, rather, he resembles me very much," replied she. "Have you never seen my portrait?"
Seeing Consuelo make an effort of memory, she said, to assist her—
"A portrait which was as much like me as it is possible for art to resemble nature, and of which I am now a mere shadow. A full portrait of a woman in young, fresh, and brilliant beauty, with a corsage of gold brocade covered with flowers and gems, a purple cloak, and black hair with knots of pearls and ribbons to keep the tresses from the shoulders. Thus was I dressed forty years ago on my wedding-day. I was beautiful, but could not long remain so, for death had made my heart its own."
"The portrait of which you speak," said Consuelo, "is at the Giants' Castle, in Albert's room. It is the portrait of his mother, whom he did not remember distinctly, but whom he yet adored, and in his ecstasies fancied he yet saw and heard. Can, you be a near relation to the noble Wanda, of Prachalitz, and consequently——"
"I am Wanda of Prachalitz!" said the sibyl regaining something of the firmness of her voice and attitude. "I am Albert's mother! I am the widow of Christian of Rudolstadt—the descendant of John Ziska de Calice, and the mother-in-law of Consuelo! I wish to be merely her adoptive mother, for she does not love Albert, and he must not be happy at the expense of his wife."
"His mother! His mother!" said Consuelo, falling at Wanda's knees. "Are you not a spectre? Were you not mourned for at the Giants' Castle as if you were dead?"
"Twenty years ago, Wanda of Prachalitz, Countess of Rudolstadt, was buried in the chapel of the Giants' Castle, beneath the pavement; and Albert, subject to similar cataleptic crises, was attacked by the same disease, and buried there last year, a victim of the same mistake. The son would never have left this frightful tomb, if the mother, attentive to the dangers which menaced him, had not watched his agony unseen, and taken care to disinter him. His mother saved him, full of life, from the worms of the sepulchre, to which he had been abandoned. His mother wrested him from the yoke of the world in which he had lived too long, and in which he could not exist, to bear him to an impenetrable asylum in which he has recovered, if not the health of his body, at least that of his soul. This is a strange story, Consuelo, which you must hear, in order to understand, concerning Albert, his strange life, his pretended death, and his wonderful resurrection! The Invisibles will not initiate you until midnight. Listen to me, and may the emotions arising from this strange story prepare you for those excitements which yet await you!"