"I have heard Count Albert say, that all this is not precisely the same thing," said Consuelo, with great modesty. "I will not, however, venture to discuss with your highness, matters, perhaps, you have studied closely. You have here historians and savans, who devote themselves to these grave matters, and you can form a better opinion of their wisdom than I can. Yet, had I the academy to instruct me, I do not think my sympathies would ever change. But let me resume my story."
"Yes, I interrupted you by pedantic reflections, and I pray you excuse me. Go on. Count Albert, enthusiastic in relation to the exploits of his ancestors, (that is easily understood, and very pardonable,) in love with you, (and that is most legitimate and natural,) would not admit that you were not his equal in the eye of God and man. He was right; but this was no reason why he should desert his father's house, and leave all who loved him in despair."
"This is not the point I wished to reach," said Consuelo. "He had been dreaming and meditating for a long time in the cavern of the Hussites, at Schreckenstein, and he was especially delighted in doing so from the fact that, besides himself, no one but a poor mad peasant was aware of these subterraneous abodes. Thither he used to go when any domestic chagrin, or any violent emotion overcame his will. He was aware of the approach of these attacks, and to hide his madness from his kindred, went to the Schreckenstein, by a secret passage, the entrance to which he had discovered in a cistern near his rooms, amid a parterre of flowers. When once in this cavern, he forgot the lapse of time, of days, and weeks. Attended by Zdenko, the visionary and poetic peasant, the excitement of whom was not a little like his own, he had no idea of ever returning to the upper world, or of seeing his parents again, until the attack began to pass away. Unfortunately, these attacks became every time more violent, and lasted longer. Once, he was so long absent, that all thought him dead, and I undertook to discover the place of his retreat. I reached it, with much difficulty and danger. I went down this cistern, which was amid the garden, and from which, one night, I had seen Zdenko come. Not knowing the way through this abyss, I was near losing my life. At last, I found Albert, and succeeded in dispersing the torpor in which he had been plunged. I restored him to his parents, and made him swear he never would return again to the fatal cavern, he yielded to me, but said, this was to sentence him to death. His prediction was but too well fulfilled."
"How so? Thus you restored him to life."
"No, madame; not unless I could love him, and never be a cause of trouble to him."
"What, did you not love him? Yet you descended in that abyss; you risked your life under-ground?"
"The mad Zdenko, not comprehending my design, and, like a faithful dog, jealous of his master's safety, was near murdering me. A torrent came near sweeping me away. Albert at first, not knowing me, almost made me share his folly; for terror and emotion make all hallucinations contagious. . . . At last, he was attacked by a new fit of delirium, as he bore me from the cave, and had very nearly closed the outlet. . . I exposed myself to all that, without loving Albert."
"Then you made a vow to Maria del Consuelo to rescue him?"
"Something like it, in fact," said Consuelo, with a sad smile; "an emotion of tender pity to his family, of deep sympathy to him, perhaps a romantic attraction, a sincere friendship, certainly, but not an appearance of love. At least, nothing like the blind, intoxicating and delicious passion I had entertained for the ungrateful Anzoleto, in which, I think, my heart was prematurely exhausted. What shall I say, madame? After that terrible expedition, I had a brain fever, and was at the very point of death. Albert, who was somewhat skilled in physic, saved my life. My slow recovery and his assiduous cares placed us on the footing of the closest intimacy. His reason returned entirely, and his father blessed and treated me as a beloved daughter. An old lame aunt, the Countess Wenceslawa, an angel of tenderness, and a patrician full of prejudices, even consented to receive me. Albert besought my love. Count Christian, too, pleaded for his son. I was moved, I was terrified. I loved Albert as one loves virtue, truth, and the beautiful; I was yet afraid of him; I dreaded becoming a countess, and of making a match, the result of which would be to raise against him and his family all the nobility of the country, and which would cause me to be accused of sordid views and base intrigues. Yet, must I own it, that was, perhaps, my only crime. . . . I regretted my profession, my liberty, my old teacher, and the exciting arena of the theatre, where, for a moment, I had appeared to glitter, and where I would disappear like a meteor. The burning stage on which my love had been crushed, my misfortune consummated, which I thought I could hate and despise forever, and yet, on which I dreamed every night I was either applauded or hissed. This must seem strange and unaccountable to you; but when one has been educated for the theatre, when one has toiled all life long for such combats and such victories, the idea of returning to them no more, is as terrible, as would be to you, Madame Amelia, that of being a princess on the stage, as I am twice a week."
"You are mistaken, my dear. You are mad. If from a princess I could become an artist, I would marry Trenck, and be happy. You to marry Rudolstadt would not from an actress become a countess or princess. I see you did not love him. That was not your fault. We cannot love those whom we please."