"Madame, that is an aphorism of which I would willingly convince myself, and in solving it, I have passed my life; could I do so my conscience would be at ease. Yet I have not been able to accomplish it."
"Let me see," said the princess, "this is a grave matter, and, as an abbess, I should be able to decide on it. You think, then, that love can choose and reason?"
"It should. A noble heart should subject its inclination; I do not say to that worldly reason, which is folly and falsehood, but to the noble discernment, which is only the love of the beautiful, and a passion for truth. You, madame, are proof of what I advance, and your example condemns me. Born to fill a throne, you have immolated false greatness on the altar of true passion, to the possession of a heart worthy of your own. I, also, born to occupy a throne, (on the stage,) had neither courage nor generosity to sacrifice the glitter of that false glory to the calm and sublime affection offered to me. I was ready to do so from devotion, but could not without grief and terror. Albert, who saw the struggle, would not accept my faith as an offering. He wished enthusiasm, equal joys, and a heart devoid of sorrow. I could not deceive him. Is it possible to deceive one in such matters? I asked time, and he granted it. I promised to do all I could to love like him. I was sincere, but wished I had not been forced by my conscience to make this formidable engagement."
"Strange girl! I will bet that you loved the other!"
"Oh my God! I thought I did not love him. One morning I waited on the mountain for Albert, and heard a voice in the ravine. I recognised a song which I had formerly studied with Anzoleto, and I recognised that penetrating voice I had loved so much, and that Venetian accent which was so dear to me. I looked down, and saw a cavalier pass. It was Anzoleto, madame."
"Alas! What was he doing in Bohemia?"
"I have since learned that he had broken his engagement, and fled from Venice, to avoid the persecution of Count Zustiniani. Having soon become tired of the quarrelsome love of the despotic Corilla, with whom he had appeared at St. Samuel's again, and had the greatest success, he had obtained the favors of a certain Clorinda, the second singer, my old schoolfellow, who had become Zustiniani's mistress. Like a man of the world, that is to say, like a frivolous libertine, the count avenged himself by taking up again with Corilla, without discharging Anzoleto. Amid this double intrigue, Anzoleto, being ridiculed by his rival, became mortified and angry, and one fine summer night, by an adroit kick, upset the gondola in which Zustiniani and his mistress were taking the fresh air. They only were upset, and had a cold bath. The waters of Venice are nowhere deep. Anzoleto, thinking this pleasantry would take him to the Leads, fled to Prague, and passed the Giants' Castle.
"He passed on, and I rejoined Albert to make a pilgrimage to the cavern of the Schreckenstein, which he desired once more to see with me. I was melancholy and unhappy. I there suffered under the most lugubrious emotions. The dark place, the Hussite bones, of which Albert had built an altar by the mysterious fountain, the admirable and touching tone of his violin—I know not what terrors—darkness, and the superstitions which here took possession of him, and which I could scarcely shake from my own mind——"
"Say all. He fancied he was John Ziska—that he was endowed with eternal life—the memory of the events of past centuries—in fine, he was as mad as the Count de St. Germain is."
"Yes, madame, since you know all; his convictions made such an impression on me, that instead of curing him, I almost participated in it."