Revived by this generous idea, she completed her preparations with much presence of mind, and was ready when Buddenbrock came for her to go. On this occasion she thought him more hypocritical and disagreeable than ever. Being both servile and arrogant, Buddenbrock was jealous of his master's sympathies, just as old dogs snap at all who visit the house. He had been mortified at the lesson the king had given him when he received orders to make Consuelo suffer from her situation, and asked for nothing better than to be avenged.
"I am much grieved, signora," said he, "at having to execute such rigorous orders. For a long time nothing like it has been witnessed in Berlin. No; it has not occurred since the time of Frederick William, the august father of the present king. It was a cruel example of the severity of the law, and of the power of our princes. I will remember it as long as I live. Then neither age nor sex were respected when an error was to be punished. I remember a very pretty girl, well-born and amiable, who, for having received the visit of an august person, contrary to the king's wish, was flogged by an executioner, and driven from the city."
"I know that story, sir," said Consuelo, with mingled fear and indignation. "The young girl was prudent and pure. Her only offence was, that she used to practise music with the present king, then prince royal. Has the king suffered so little from the catastrophes to which he has subjected others, that he now dares attempt to frighten me by so infamous a threat?"
"I think not, signora. His majesty does nothing but what is great and just, and you must know whether or not your innocence shelters you from his anger. I would think so if I could, but just now I saw the king more irritated than he ever was. He said that he was wrong in attempting to reign by mildness, and that in his father's days no woman had dared to act as you had. From some other words of his majesty, I am afraid some degrading punishment—I cannot conjecture what—awaits you. But my duty is painful; we are now at the gates of the city, and if I find there that the king has given any orders contrary to those I received to conduct you to Spandau, I will withdraw, my rank not permitting me to be present."
Buddenbrock, seeing the effect he had produced, and that Consuelo was almost ready to faint, stopped. She, at that moment, almost regretted her devotion, and could not in her heart refrain from appealing to her unknown protectors. But as she looked with a haggard eye at Buddenbrock, she saw in his face the hesitating expression of falsehood, and began to grow calm. Her heart yet beat as if it would burst her breast, when a police officer presented himself at the gate, to exchange a few words with Buddenbrock. During this conversation, one of the grenadiers who had come on horseback with the carriage, came to the other door, and said, in a low tone, "Be calm, signorina, blood will be shed rather than that you should be injured." In her trouble, Consuelo did not distinguish the features of her unknown friend, who at once withdrew. The carriage proceeded at a gallop towards the fortress, and, in about an hour, Porporina was incarcerated in due form, or rather with the prevailing want of form, in the castle of Spandau.
This citadel, at that time considered impregnable, is situated in the bay formed by the confluence of the Havel and the Spree. The day had become dark and gloomy, and Consuelo having completed the sacrifice, experienced that apathetic exhaustion which follows energy and enthusiasm. She therefore suffered herself to be taken to the gloomy abode intended for her, without even looking around. She was exhausted; and though it was noon only, threw herself, dressed as she was, on the bed, and went fast asleep. In addition to the fatigue, she experienced, was added that kind of delicious security, the fruits of which a good conscience always receives. Though the bed was hard, she slept profoundly as possible.
She had been for some time in a kind of half-slumber, when she heard midnight struck by the castle clock. The impression of sound is so keen to musical ears that she was awakened at once. When she left her bed, she understood that she was in prison, and she was forced to pass the whole night in thought, as she had slept all day. She was surprised at not suffering with cold, and was especially pleased at not feeling that physical inconvenience which paralyses thought. The wind bellowed outside in the most mournful manner, the rain beat on the window, and Consuelo could see through the narrow window nothing but the iron grating painted on the dark ground of a starless sky.
The poor captive passed the first hour of this new and unknown punishment, with her mind perfectly lucid, and with thoughts full of logic, reason, and philosophy. Gradually, however, this tension fatigued her brain, and the night became lugubrious. Her positive reflections changed into vague and strange reveries. Fantastic images, painful memories, terrible apprehensions assailed her, and she found herself in a state neither of sleeping nor watching, yet where all her ideas assumed some form and seemed to float amid the darkness of her cell. Sometimes she fancied herself on the stage, and mentally sang a part that fatigued her, and the representation of which haunted her, without her being able to get rid of it: sometimes she saw herself in the hands of the executioner, with bare shoulders, amid a stupid and curious crowd, lacerated by the rod, while the king, with angry air, looked down from the balcony, and Anzoleto stood laughing in one corner. At last, she felt a kind of torpor, and saw nothing but the spectre of Albert in a cenotaph, making vain efforts to rise and come to her aid. Then, this image was effaced, and she fancied herself asleep in the grotto of Schreckenstein, while the sublime and sad notes of the violin uttered in the depths of the cavern Albert's eloquent and lacerating prayer. Consuelo, in fact, was but half asleep, and the sound of the instrument flattered her ear, and restored quiet to her soul. The phrases, however, were so united, though weakened by distance, and the modulations were so distinct, that she really fancied she heard them, and was not astonished at the fact. It seemed that this fantastic performance lasted more than an hour, and that it lost in the air its insensible gradations. Consuelo then sunk again to sleep and day began to dawn when she opened her eyes.
The first care she had was to look around her room, which she had not even looked at on the previous evening, so absorbed was she by the sensations of physical life. She was in a cell, perfectly naked, but clean, and warmed by a brick stove, which was lighted on the outside, and which shed no light in the room, though it maintained an equable temperature. One single arched window lighted the room, which yet was not too dark: the walls were white-washed and rather high.
Three knocks were heard at the door, and the keeper said aloud, "Prisoner, number three, get up and dress: in a quarter of an hour your room will be visited."