The mask did not seem to disguise his voice, which Consuelo at once recognised as that of young Benda, the melancholy violinist. He took her other hand, and said, "Distrust adventures and adventurers."
They then passed hastily, as if they were anxious to ask and answer no questions.
Consuelo was surprised that she had been so easily recognised, notwithstanding her care to disguise herself. Consequently she hurried to go. She soon saw that she was watched, and followed by a mask, the form and bearing of which seemed to denote Von Poelnitz, the director of the royal theatres, and chamberlain to the king. She had not the least doubt when he spoke to her, great soever as was his care to change his voice and tone. He made some idle remarks, to which she did not reply, for she saw distinctly that he wished to make her talk. She succeeded in getting rid of him, and went through the ball-room, so as to be able to give him the slip, in case he should persist in following her. There was a great crowd, and she had much difficulty in finding the entrance. Just at that moment she looked around, to be sure that she was not followed, and was surprised to see Poelnitz talking in the most friendly manner possible with the red domino, whom she supposed to be the Count de St. Germain. She was not aware that Poelnitz had known him in France, and feared some treason on the part of the adventurer—not for herself, but for the princess—the secret of whom she had involuntarily betrayed to a suspicious character.
When she awoke the next morning, she found a coronet of white roses hanging above her head, to the crucifix which had belonged to her mother, and with which she had never parted. She at the same time observed that the cypress bough, which, since the evening of a certain triumph at Vienna, when it had been thrown on the stage, had never ceased to adorn the crucifix, had disappeared. She looked in every direction for it in vain. It seemed that in substituting for it the fresh and smiling crown, this sad emblem had intentionally been removed. Her servant could not tell her how or when the substitution had been made. She said she had not left the house on the previous evening, and had admitted no one. She had not observed it when she prepared her mistress's bed, and had not noticed if the crown was there or not. In a word, she was so naïvely amazed at the matter, that it was difficult to suspect her sincerity. This girl had a very unselfish heart, of which Consuelo had received more than one proof. Her only fault was a great love of gossip, and making her mistress the confidant of all her chatterings. She did not on this occasion fail to weary her with a long story of the most tedious details, though she could give her no information. She did nothing but comment on the mysterious gallantry of the chaplet. Consuelo, ere long, was so wearied, that she besought her not to chatter any more, but to be quiet. When she was alone, she examined the coronet with the greatest care. The flowers were fresh, as if they had been gathered an instant before, and as full of perfume as if it was not mid-winter. Consuelo sighed when she thought such beautiful roses were at such a season scarcely to be found in any other place than in a royal residence, and that her maid, perhaps, had good reasons for not attributing them to the politeness of the king.
"He did not know," said she, "how fond I was of my cypress. Why did he take it away? It matters not what hand has committed this profanation, but may it be cursed!" As Porporina cast the chaplet from her, with an expression of great sadness, she saw a slip of white parchment fall from it, which she picked up, and on which she read these words, in an unknown hand:—
"Every noble action merits a recompense, and the only one worthy of great souls is the homage of hearts that sympathise. Let the cypress disappear from your bedside, my generous sister, and let these flowers rest on your brow, if but for a moment. It is your bridal crown—it is the pledge of your eternal marriage with virtue, and of your admission into the communion of the true believers."
Consuelo examined these characters with great surprise for a long time, and her imagination sought in vain to discover some similarity to Count Albert's writing. In spite of the distrust she entertained of the kind of initiation to which she was invited—in spite of the revulsion inspired by the promises of magic, which then was very popular in all Germany and all philosophical Europe—in spite of the advice her friends had given her, to be on her guard—the last words of the red domino, and the expressions of the anonymous note, excited her imagination almost to the point of downright curiosity, which may rather be called poetic anxiety. Without knowing why she obeyed the affectionate injunction of her unknown friends, she placed the coronet on her dishevelled hair, and fixed her eyes on a glass, as if she expected to see behind her the unknown apparition.
She was roused from her reverie by a short, distinct ring at the door, and a servant came to tell her that the Baron Von Buddenbrock had a word to say to her. This word was pronounced with all the arrogance an aide-de-camp always assumes when he is no longer under his master's eyes.
"Signorina," said he, when she had gone into the saloon, "you must go with me to the king at once. Make haste—the king awaits you."
"I will not wait on the king in slippers and in a robe-de-chambre," said La Porporina.