The Countess von Rudolstadt

by George Sand

  The next morning she woke to find a crown of white roses suspended over her head. It was hanging from the crucifix that had belonged to her mother, which was never far from Consuelo. At the same time she noticed that the cypress branch that had trimmed the crucifix ever since a certain triumphant evening in Vienna when a nameless hand had thrown it on stage was missing. She searched for it high and low, to no avail. It seemed that someone had deliberately replaced that gloomy trophy with this fresh, lovely crown. Her chambermaid could not say how or when the substitution had been made. She claimed not to have left the house nor let anyone in the previous evening. While turning down her mistress’s bed, she had not noticed whether the crown was already there. In short, she was so ingenuously amazed that it was hard to doubt her sincerity. The girl had a most disinterested soul, of which Consuelo had ample proof, and the only fault that Consuelo knew her to possess was a tremendous itch to talk and tell her mistress all manner of nonsense. Had she known anything at all, she never would have passed up the chance to wear Consuelo out with a long tale and the most tiresome details. She went on interminably about how mysterious and gallant it was for someone to have given her mistress this crown. Soon Consuelo was so bored that she told her maid not to worry about it any longer and sent her away. Alone again, she examined the crown with the utmost care. The flowers were fresh as could be, and their perfume summery sweet despite the season. Consuelo heaved a bitter sigh, thinking that such lovely roses in midwinter could scarcely have come from elsewhere than the conservatories of the royal residences and that her maid was perhaps right to attribute this homage to the king. “Yet he didn’t know how much my cypress meant to me,” she thought to herself. “So why would he have it taken away? No matter, a curse on the hand of whosoever is responsible for this profanation!” In her chagrin she pitched the crown across the room, at which point a little strip of parchment fell away. She picked it up and read the following message traced by an unknown hand, “Every noble act deserves a reward, and the only reward worthy of great souls is the homage of sympathetic souls. Let the cypress be gone from your bedside, generous sister, and may these flowers wreathe your brow, if only for an instant. They are the tiara of your betrothal, the pledge of your eternal union with virtue and the assurance of your admission to the communion of believers.”

  Consuelo, flabbergasted, pored long and hard over every letter, her imagination trying in vain to discover some vague resemblance with Count Albert’s handwriting. Despite her suspicions about the sort of initiation to which certain parties seemed to be beckoning her, despite the repulsion she felt for the promises of magic, then so widespread in Germany and every part of Europe touched by the Enlightenment, despite the warnings from her friends about keeping up her defenses, the last words of the red domino as well as the expressions in this anonymous note fired her imagination with that lovely curiosity that could sooner be called poetic expectation. Without much understanding why, she obeyed the cordial command of these unknown friends, placed the crown on her tousled head and fixed her eyes on a mirror as though she expected to see a beloved ghost appear at her back.

  The short, sharp ring of a bell startled Consuelo and roused her out of her daydream. She was informed that Herr von Buddenbrock had something to say to her on the spot. These last three words were enunciated with all the arrogance that the king’s aide-de-camp put in his words and manners when out of his master’s sight.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said when she joined him in the parlor, “you’re following me to the palace at once. Hurry up, no one keeps the king waiting.”

  “I’m not going to see the king in slippers and a bathrobe,” Porporina replied.

  “I’ll give you five minutes to make yourself decent,” said Buddenbrock, pulling out his watch and waving her off to her bedroom.

  Consuelo was frightened, yet determined to take upon herself all the dangers and disasters that could engulf the princess and Baron von Trenck. She got dressed in less than the appointed time and reappeared apparently calm before the king’s aide-de-camp. Buddenbrock had thought that the king seemed put out while ordering him to bring in the delinquent. At that moment the king’s anger became his own, without his knowing what it was about. But seeing how unruffled Consuelo looked, he remembered that the king had a great weakness for the girl. He told himself that she might just win the upcoming battle and bear a grudge against him for mistreating her. He saw fit to lower his tone, thinking that there would always be time to crush her once her disgrace had been consummated.

  With a clumsy, stilted attempt at courtesy he offered her his hand and helped her into the carriage he had brought, sat down cap in hand opposite her, put on a subtle, discerning face and said, “Well, Mademoiselle, what a magnificent winter morning!”

  “Indeed it is, Baron,” Consuelo mockingly replied. “Magnificent weather for a little drive outside the walls.”

  With these words Consuelo was thinking with stoic cheer that she might just be spending the rest of this magnificent day on the road to some fortress. Yet Buddenbrock, who could not understand the serenity of heroic resignation, thought that she was threatening to have him disgraced and imprisoned if she got the upper hand in the stormy ordeal facing her. He blanched, tried to be pleasant, failed and sank back, bothered and bewildered, anxiously wondering what he had done to offend Porporina.

  After being deposited in a small room, Consuelo had time to admire its rose-colored furniture, faded, sprinkled with snuff, frayed by the little dogs that were always sprawling on it—filthy, in other words. The king was not there yet, but she could hear his voice in the next room, and it was a dreadful voice when he was angry. “I tell you, I’ll make an example of these scoundrels and purge Prussia of this vermin that’s been eating away at her for too long a time,” he exclaimed, making his boots creak, as if he were wildly pacing round the room.

  “And Your Majesty will render a great service to reason and the kingdom of Prussia,” another voice replied. “But that’s no reason why a woman. . . .”

  “Oh yes it is, my dear Voltaire. Don’t you know that the worst schemes, the most infernal plots are hatched in those little brains?”

  “A woman, Sire, a woman!”

  “Will you never stop repeating yourself? You love women, Voltaire! You suffered through the reign of a petticoat, and you don’t know that they’ve got to be handled like soldiers or slaves when they meddle in serious matters?”

  “But how can Your Majesty believe that there is anything serious in this whole business? It’s tranquillizers and shower therapy that should be used with miracle workers and alchemists.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Voltaire! What if I were to tell you that La Mettrie, the poor wretch, has been poisoned?”

  “As can happen to anyone who eats more than his stomach can take. Indigestion is a form of poisoning.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t just his gluttony that killed him. He was served eagle pâté and told it was pheasant.”

  “Prussian eagle is very deadly, I know, but it strikes with lightning, not poison.”

  “Now, now! Spare me metaphors. I’d bet a hundred to one he was poisoned. La Mettrie fell for all their nonsense, poor devil, and to anyone who wanted to listen he’d say in a manner half serious, half joking that they’d made him see ghosts and demons. He had been so incredulous, so flip, and they addled his wits. Once a friend to Trenck, he turned his back on him, and they punished him in their own way. Well, I’ll punish them in turn, I will! And they won’t forget it! As for those who mean to hide behind these vile hoaxes to weave their plots and thwart the vigilance of the law. . . .”

  At that point the king shut the door that had been left slightly ajar, and Consuelo heard nothing more. She had to agonize for fifteen long minutes before Frederick finally marched in, looking dreadfully old and ugly in his wrath. Without saying a word to her or giving her so much as a glance, he carefully closed all the doors, and when he turned to her, there was som
ething so diabolical about him that for a second she thought he meant to strangle her. She knew that in his fits of rage he reverted, as though despite himself, to his father’s savage instincts, that he thought nothing of kicking the shins of his public officials black and blue when he was displeased with their conduct. La Mettrie would laugh at these cowardly acts of cruelty, asserting that they were excellent exercises for gout, from which the king prematurely suffered. Yet La Mettrie would no longer make the king laugh nor laugh at his expense. Two days earlier the man—young, nimble, plump, and fresh-faced—had dropped dead after gorging himself at table, and some dark fancy made the king relish the suspicion that either the hateful Jesuits or the scheming sorcerers then in fashion had engineered his death. Without admitting as much to himself, Frederick too was in the grip of that vague, childish terror that the occult sciences inspired all over Germany.

  “Listen up, you!” he said, looking daggers at Consuelo. “You’ve been unmasked, you are lost, there’s only one way for you to save your hide, and that’s confessing everything at this very instant, without beating around the bush or holding anything back.” As Consuelo was about to say something, he pointed at the floor and shouted, “On your knees, you miserable creature, on your knees! You can’t confess such things standing up. Your forehead should already be in the dust. Down on your knees, I tell you, or I won’t listen to a word.”

  “Since I have absolutely nothing to say to you, you don’t have to listen,” said Consuelo icily. “And you’ll never get me down on my knees.”

  For a second the king considered knocking the crazy girl to the floor and trampling her underfoot. Consuelo unintentionally glanced at Frederick’s hands and saw them convulsively reaching in her direction. His nails seemed to be getting longer and longer, arching out like the claws of a cat about to leap on its prey. But the royal claws immediately drew back. Although Frederick could be petty and mean, he was too noble-minded not to admire courage in others. He masked his feelings with a disdainful smile.

  “You poor child,” he said with a pitiful look, “they’ve managed to make a fanatic out of you. But listen! Every second counts. You can still redeem your life. In five minutes it’ll be too late. I’m giving you the five minutes. Use them well. Make up your mind to reveal everything, or prepare to die.”

  “I’m all prepared right now,” replied Consuelo, indignant that he was making an idle threat to frighten her.

  “Be quiet and think hard.” The king sat down at his desk and opened a book with an affectation of calm that betrayed a hint of painful, deep emotion.

  Consuelo, all the while remembering Herr von Buddenbrock’s grotesque imitation of the king when, with watch in hand, he too had given her five minutes to get dressed, decided to do as prescribed and use that time to draw up a plan of action. The thing most to be avoided, she felt, was the clever, probing interrogation that the king would throw around her like a net. Who could dream of confounding such a criminal judge? She risked falling into one of his traps, thinking that she was saving the princess while consummating her ruin. So she nobly resolved not to try and justify herself, not even to ask about the accusations lodged against her. She would instead exasperate the judge by her cheek until he wound up pronouncing his verdict without reason or justice, ab irato. Ten minutes later the king had not lifted his eyes from his book. Maybe he wanted to give her time to change her mind, maybe he was absorbed in his reading.

  “Have you come to a decision?” he asked, finally putting down the book. He crossed his legs, keeping one elbow on the table.

  “There is nothing for me to decide,” replied Consuelo. “I am under the rule of injustice and violence. My only option is to endure the consequences.”

  “Are you accusing me of being violent and unjust?”

  “If not you, then the absolute power you wield. It corrupts your soul and leads your judgment astray.”

  “Bravo. Now you’re passing judgment on me, forgetting that you’ve only got seconds to redeem yourself from death.”

  “You have no right to dispose of my life; I’m not your subject. If you violate human rights, so much the worse. As for me, I’d rather die than live another day under your laws.”

  “You genuinely hate me!” said the king, seeming to understand what she was up to and foiling her plan by arming himself with cool contempt. “I see that you’ve been well trained, and this role of the Spartan virgin that you play so well exposes your accomplices and reveals their hand more than you think. But you don’t know much about human rights and the law of nations. Every sovereign has the right to put to death anyone who comes into his territory to conspire against him.”

  “What! You think I’m conspiring against you?” Consuelo exclaimed, carried away by the conscience of the truth. Too indignant to try and exonerate herself, she shrugged her shoulders and turned her back as if she meant to leave, scarcely knowing what she was doing.

  “Where are you going?” asked the king, struck by her air of irresistible candor.

  “To prison, to the scaffold, wherever you like, provided that I be spared hearing that absurd accusation.”

  “You’re really quite angry,” the king snorted sardonically. “You want me to tell you why? You came here determined to drape yourself in the virtue of ancient Rome, and now you see that I’m amused by your performance. There’s no greater mortification, especially for an actress, than falling flat in a role.”

  Consuelo did not say a word. She just crossed her arms and stared at the king with an assurance that nearly disconcerted him. To dodge her mounting anger, he had to break the silence and resume his devastating derision, still hoping that he could so irk the accused that she would drop her guard and attempt to defend herself.

  “Oh yes,” he said, as in reply to the silent language of that proud physiognomy, “I’m well aware that you’ve been led to believe that I was in love with you, that you think that you can defy me and get away with it. This whole thing would be very funny were it not for the involvement of certain people who mean a bit more to me than you do. You were so vain about playing a fine scene that it went to your head. Yet you should know that minor confidants are always sacrificed by those who use them. They’re not the ones I intend to go after. They’re so close to me that the only way that I can punish them is by riding roughshod over you right in front of their faces. It’s up to you now. Are you going to undergo all this pain for people who have betrayed you and blamed everything on your indiscreet, ambitious zeal?”

  “Sire,” said Consuelo, “I don’t know what you mean, but the way you’re talking about confidants and those who use them makes me tremble for you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that you would make me think that while you were a tyrant’s prime victim, you would have turned Major Katte over to your father’s inquisition.”

  The king went pale as death. It is common knowledge that after having tried to run away to England in his youth he had witnessed his confidant’s head being cut off on his father’s orders. Locked up in prison, he had been marched to a window and forced to watch his friend’s blood running over the scaffold. That horrible scene, in which he was as innocent as possible, made a dreadful impression on him. Yet it is the fate of princes to follow the example of despotism even when they have been subjected to its cruelest effects. Suffering turned Frederick gloomy, and after a wretched youth in chains, he ascended to the throne imbued with the principles and prejudices of absolute power. There was no bloodier reproach than the one Consuelo pretended to aim at the king so as to remind him of his past woes and make him aware of his present injustice. He was wounded to the quick, which had no more salutary effect on his hardened soul than had Officer Katte’s execution so many years before. He got up and said in a strange voice, “That’s enough, you may go now.”

  He rang and, for the few seconds before his servants arrived, reopened his book and pretended to dive back into his reading. But his hand twitched nervously and made the page t
hat he was trying to turn rustle.

  A footman came in, the king gestured to him, and Consuelo was taken to another room. One of the king’s little greyhounds had been keeping an eye on Consuelo, wagging her tail and prancing about at her feet in order to get a nice pat, and when she left the room, the dog tried to follow her out. The king, who felt fatherly love for these little beasts alone, had to call Mopsule back as she went trotting through the door on the heels of the condemned woman. The king cherished the idea, strange but perhaps not unfounded, that his dogs could instinctively divine the feelings of those who approached him. He was suspicious of the people who always made them growl and felt sure that he could trust the ones the dogs fancied. Despite his inner turmoil Frederick had noticed Mopsule’s pronounced affection for Porporina. When the greyhound came back to him, her head cast down in sadness, he pounded on the table and said to himself, “And yet the girl means me no harm!”

  “Your Majesty called?” asked Buddenbrock appearing at another door.