by George Sand
“Aren’t you hoping that this will result in your sharing something more tender? It wouldn’t be the first time that love has been born of boredom.”
“I’m without fear or hope in that regard,” replied Consuelo, “for something tells me that it won’t ever happen. As I’ve said, dear Amalia, there’s something strange going on in me. Ever since Albert died, I love him, I think about him alone, I cannot love anyone but him. This may be the first time that love has ever been born of death, and yet that’s what is happening to me. I cannot console myself for having denied happiness to someone who deserved it, and this stubborn remorse has become an obsession, a sort of passion, perhaps madness!”
“It looks a bit that way,” said the princess. “At least, some kind of illness. . . . And yet one that I understand well and am also experiencing, for I love someone far away whom I may never see again. That’s about the same thing as being in love with a dead man, isn’t it? But tell me, my brother Prince Heinrich, isn’t he a pleasant gentleman?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“A great lover of beauty, the soul of an artist, a hero on the battlefield, a nice, striking face that stops short of being beautiful, a proud, independent mind, an enemy of despotism, the unruly, threatening slave of my brother the tyrant; in short, surely the best of the family. I’ve heard he’s quite smitten with you. Hasn’t he told you that?”
“I took it as a joke.”
“And you don’t want to take it seriously?”
“No, Madame.”
“You’re very difficult, my dear. What’s wrong with him?”
“One big flaw, or at least one insurmountable obstacle stands in the way of my loving him. He’s a prince.”
“Thanks for the compliment, my sweet! So he had nothing to do with your fainting spell during the performance a few days ago? I’ve heard that the king was so jealous of the way Heinrich was looking at you that he had him put under arrest as the curtain was going up and that this sorrow made you ill.”
“I had absolutely no idea that the prince had been put under arrest, and I’m quite sure that it wasn’t because of me. The cause of my spell was something else altogether. Just imagine, Madame, in the middle of the piece I was singing somewhat mechanically, as is too often the case here, my eyes drift toward the front-row boxes near the stage. All of a sudden I catch sight of a pale figure standing at the back of Herr Golowkin’s box and leaning ever so slightly forward as if to see me better. It was Albert, Madame. I swear to God, I saw him, recognized him. Perhaps it was an illusion, but it’s impossible to have one more terrifying, more complete than that.”
“You poor child! You’re having visions, for sure.”
“Oh, that’s not all! Last week, after giving you the letter from Herr von Trenck, I got lost in the palace and ran into Herr Stoss at the entrance to the curio collection. I stopped to chat with him, and there I saw Albert again. This time he looked as threatening as he had looked indifferent the evening before at the theater, as he always looks in my dreams, wrathful or contemptuous.”
“Did Herr Stoss see him, too?”
“Very clearly, and he said that it was a certain Trismegistus, whom Your Highness enjoys consulting in his quality as a necromancer.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mme von Kleist, going pale. “I just knew he was a real sorcerer! It’s always terrified me to lay eyes on him. Despite that handsome face and noble mien, there’s something diabolical in his physiognomy, and I’m sure that he, like Proteus, can change his appearance as he likes in order to frighten people. On top of that, he’s surly and insubordinate like everyone of that ilk. Once when he was charting my horoscope, he rebuked me point-blank for having divorced Herr von Kleist because he was ruined. It was a terrible crime, he said. I tried to defend myself, and when he became a bit overbearing with me, I began to lose my temper. At that point he got vehement and predicted that I’d get married again, that my second husband would die by my fault, even more wretchedly than the first, but that I’d be well punished by private remorse and public reproach. As he was saying those words, he looked so dreadful that I took him for Herr von Kleist come back from the dead and went screaming into the rooms of Her Royal Highness.”
“Yes, an amusing scene that was,” said the princess who every now and then reverted, as though against her will, to her dry, bitter tone. “I laughed like mad.”
“There was no reason for that!” Consuelo said artlessly. “But who on earth is this Trismegistus? And since Your Highness doesn’t believe in sorcerers. . . .”
“I promised to tell you all about sorcery some day. Don’t be in such hurry. For the time being, just know that the seer Trismegistus is a man for whom I have great respect, who will be most useful to the three of us, to many others as well!”
“I’d really like to see him again,” said Consuelo. “Even though the thought makes me tremble, I’d like to assess in cold blood whether he looks as much like Count von Rudolstadt as I had imagined.”
“If he looks like the count? Is that what you just said? Well, that brings to mind something I would have forgotten, and it may just give us a terribly trite explanation for this whole great mystery. Hold on, let me think. . . . Now I’ve got it. Listen, my poor child, and learn to beware of everything that seems supernatural. It’s Trismegistus that Cagliostro showed you; for Trismegistus is involved with Cagliostro, and last year they were both here at the same time. It’s Trismegistus that you saw in Count Golowkin’s box at the theater; for Trismegistus stays in his house, and they both take an interest in chemistry or alchemy. Finally, it’s Trismegistus that you saw in the castle the day after; for that was the day, and shortly after I dismissed you, that I saw Trismegistus, and in parenthesis, he gave me lots of details about Trenck’s escape.”
“For the purpose of bragging that he’d had a hand in it and getting Your Highness to reimburse him for sums that he certainly didn’t spend on that,” said Mme von Kleist. “Your Highness may think what she wishes, but I’m not afraid to say that the man is a crook.”
“Which doesn’t prevent him from being a great sorcerer! Isn’t that right, von Kleist? How do you manage to have such respect for his skill and such contempt for his person?”
“Well, Madame, it all fits together just fine. People are awed by sorcerers, but they also detest them. It’s exactly the same thing with the devil.”
“And yet people want to see the devil and can’t do without sorcerers? That’s your logic, my fine von Kleist!”
“But, Madame,” said Consuelo, eagerly listening to this bizarre discussion, “how do you know that he looks like Count von Rudolstadt?”
“I forgot to tell you. It’s something I learned by simple accident. This morning when Supperville was telling me the story about you and Count Albert, everything he said about that strange character made me curious about his looks. Was he handsome? Did his physiognomy match his extraordinary imagination? Supperville took a moment to think, then said, ‘Well, Madame, it won’t be hard to give you a good idea of that; for you have among your toys an eccentric who would bear a terrifying resemblance to poor old Rudolstadt if he were gaunter, more ashen-faced, and wore his hair differently. I’m talking about your sorcerer Trismegistus.’ That’s what it all boils down to, my charming widow, and it’s no more mysterious than Cagliostro, Trismegistus, Saint-Germain, and company.”
“You’ve just taken a huge weight off my chest and pulled a black veil off my head!” said Porporina. “I feel that I’m being reborn to life, waking out of some painful sleep! I can’t thank you enough for this explanation! So I’m not crazy, I don’t have visions, and I won’t be afraid of myself any longer! . . . And yet, just see what the human heart is,” she added after a moment of introspection. “I think I regret not feeling weak and afraid any longer. In my folly I had almost convinced myself that Albert really wasn’t dead, that one day, after his terrifying apparitions had made me atone for all the hurt I caused him, he would come back to me serene and indul
gent. Now I’m very sure about these deplorable certainties: Albert is sleeping in the tomb of his ancestors, he will not leave that place, nor will death release its prey!”
“You were able to doubt that? Well, that goes to show that there is some pleasure in madness. As for me, I had no hope that Trenck would get out of his Silesian dungeon; yet it was possible, and now it is so!”
“If I were to tell you, lovely Amalia, all the conjectures going round and round in my poor head, you’d see that they were unlikely, but not all impossible. For example, a spell of lethargy. . . . Albert was prone to it. . . . But it’s just too painful to recall these mad suppositions, now that the man I took for Albert is a crook.”
“Trismegistus isn’t what one thinks. . . . But he’s certainly not Count von Rudolstadt, for I’ve known him for several years, and during all this time, ostensibly at least, he’s been a seer. Besides, he doesn’t look as much like Count von Rudolstadt as you think. Supperville is too skilled a doctor to bury a man in a state of lethargy, nor does he believe in ghosts, and he ascertained differences that you couldn’t see because you were upset.”
“Oh, how I’d like to see this Trismegistus again!” said Consuelo with a preoccupied look.
“You may not be seeing him for quite a while,” was the princess’s chilly reply. “He left for Warsaw the very day you saw him here in the palace. He never stays more than three days in Berlin. But he’ll certainly be back in a year.”
“Ah, if he were Albert!” said Consuelo, deep in her musings.
The princess shrugged her shoulders.
“Fate has obviously decreed that I shall have nothing but crackpots for friends. This one takes my sorcerer for her late husband Canon von Kleist, and the other one for her late husband Count von Rudolstadt. Lucky for me, I’ve got a good head on my shoulders; otherwise, I might take him for Trenck, and God knows what would happen. Trismegistus must be a poor sorcerer not to take advantage of all these misapprehensions! Now, now, my lovely Porporina, don’t look at me with such fear and dismay. Get hold of yourself. If Count Albert, instead of being dead, had awakened out of his lethargy, don’t you think that people would have heard about such an interesting turn of events? Haven’t you kept in touch with his family, and wouldn’t they have told you about this?”
“I’ve lost all contact with them,” replied Consuelo. “The Canoness Wenceslawa wrote me twice in the course of a year to give me two bits of sad news; the death of her older brother Christian, my husband’s father, who didn’t recover the memory of his misfortune before the end of his long, painful life; and that of her other brother Baron Frederick, who died hunting after he fell down a ravine on that fateful Mount Schreckenstein. I made polite replies without daring to offer my sad consolations in person. I had the impression from her letters that her heart was torn between kindness and condescension. She called me dear child, generous friend, but showed no sign of any desire for tender ministrations on my part.”
“So you think that Albert, back from the dead, is leading a calm, secret life inside the Castle of the Giants without so much as sending you a note and without anyone outside suspecting a single thing?”
“No, Madame, I don’t think so, since that would be altogether impossible, and I’m crazy to want to have any doubts,” replied Consuelo, hiding her tear-streaked face in her hands.
As the night went on, the princess seemed to slip back into her usual bad disposition. Her flippant banter about matters so close to Consuelo’s heart hurt her dreadfully.
“Now, don’t be so glum,” Amalia abruptly ordered. “What a fine party! You’ve told us stories that would make a devil’s blood run cold. Von Kleist is white as a ghost and can’t stop shaking. She’s scared to death, I think! As for me, who wanted to be happy and have some fun, it hurts me to see you suffering, my poor child!”
The princess said these last words in a kind tone of voice. Lifting her head, Consuelo saw a tear of sympathy running down her cheek, while her lips were still contracted in an ironic smile. She kissed the hand that the abbess held out to her and inwardly pitied her for being unable to be humane four hours in a row.
“No matter how mysterious your Castle of the Giants, how fierce the canoness’s pride, how close-lipped the servants, you can be sure that anything that happens there is no safer from publicity than anywhere else. They did their best to keep the lid on Count Albert’s bizarre ways, but soon the whole province knew about them, and they had long been the gossip of the little court of Bayreuth when Supperville was called to treat your poor husband. There is now in that family another secret that they’ve no doubt been hiding just as carefully, but without preserving it any better from society’s malice. I’m talking about the young Baroness Amalia running away with a handsome adventurer shortly after her cousin’s death.”
“I didn’t know about that for quite a while myself. I’d even go so far as to say that some things do remain secret in this world, for one still doesn’t know the name and station of the man who carried off the young baroness nor where he took her.”
“Indeed, that’s what Supperville told me. Well now, old Bohemia is a land of mysterious adventures, but that’s no reason for Count Albert . . .”
“In name of heaven, Madame, let’s not talk about that anymore. I beg your pardon for having worn you out with that long story, and when Your Highness wishes me to leave. . . .”
“Two in the morning!” exclaimed Mme von Kleist, shuddering at the lugubrious bells of the palace clock.
“In that case, my dear friends, we must go our separate ways,” said the princess, getting up, “for my sister von Anspach is going to come wake me as early as seven with all kinds of stories about the wild oats her dear margrave is sowing. He recently got back from Paris and is madly in love with Mlle Clairon. My lovely Porporina, while we are the queens in name, you who reign on stage are in fact the queens of the world, and you’ve got the better lot. When it strikes your fancy, you can just snatch any crowned head away from us, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days Mlle Hippolyte Clairon, who is an intelligent girl, became the Margravine von Anspach, in competition with my sister, who is an idiot. Now, get me a fur cloak, von Kleist, and I’ll escort the two of you down the hall.”
“And Your Highness will return all by herself?” asked Mme von Kleist, who looked very worried.
“All by myself,” Amalia replied, “and without any fear of the devil and goblins, who have nonetheless been holding plenary court in the castle for the last few nights, or so people say. Come along, Consuelo! We’re going to watch Mme von Kleist fly into a fine fright as she goes down the hall.”
The princess grabbed a candleholder and took the lead, dragging Mme von Kleist, who was in fact quite nervous. Consuelo followed. She too was a bit unnerved, without knowing why.
“I assure you, Madame, this is the fatal hour,” said Mme von Kleist. “It’s reckless to venture through this part of the castle right now. What would it cost you to let us wait half an hour more? At two thirty it’s all over.”
“No, no,” replied Amalia. “It wouldn’t bother me to run into her and see how she is.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Consuelo, speeding up to ask Mme von Kleist.
“You mean you don’t know?” asked the princess. “A woman in white goes round sweeping the palace stairs and halls when a member of the royal family is about to die, and she’s been back for the last few nights. It seems to be here that she’s been performing her antics, which means I’m the one in danger. That’s why you see me so calm. My sister-in-law, the Queen of Prussia (the most feeble head ever to wear a crown!) can’t sleep because of it, people tell me, and spends all her nights at Charlottenburg. Yet, as she has infinite respect for the Sweeper, as does the queen mother, who is equally bereft of reason in this regard, these fine ladies have forbidden anyone to watch for the ghost or to trouble her in any of her noble tasks. So the castle gets a good sweep, and by Lucifer himself, which doesn’t prevent it fr
om being really filthy, as you can see.”
Just then a huge cat streaked out of the shadowy depths of the hallway and ran yowling and purring up to Mme von Kleist. She let out a piercing shriek and tried to make a dash for the princess’s rooms. The princess, however, kept a firm grip on her, all the while making the air resound with her hoarse, rasping bursts of laughter, even more lugubrious than the wintry wind whistling through the vast palace. Consuelo shivered with cold, perhaps also fear, for the contortions on Mme von Kleist’s face seemed to bear witness to true danger, and the princess’s forced merriment and swagger did not vouch for a sincere sense of security on her part.
“I admire Your Royal Highness’s unbelief,” said Mme von Kleist in a quavering, slightly spiteful voice. “If like me she had seen and heard the woman in white the night before her august king and father died. . . .”
“Alas,” replied Amalia in a satanic tone, “as I’m sure she’s not here now to herald the death of my august brother, I’m delighted that she’s coming for me. The she-devil knows that my happiness requires one death or the other.”
“Oh, Madame! this is no time to say such things!” said Mme von Kleist, her teeth so tightly clenched that she could scarcely get her words out. “In the name of heaven, stop a second and listen! Doesn’t that make you shudder?”
The princess stopped with a derisive air. Once her silk skirts, heavy and stiff as cardboard, had stopped rustling, our three heroines, who had almost reached the huge stairwell at the end of the hall, clearly heard the dry, uneven slap of a broom coming up the stone stairs step by step, sounding like a servant rushing through a chore.