by George Sand
Consuelo let the old courtier babble on without interruption, and when he urged her to say something, she persisted in saying that she had no idea what he was talking about. Sensing a trap beneath that amiable frivolity, she held safely back.
Then Poelnitz changed tactics and said in a serious tone, “Good! You’re suspicious of me, which I don’t hold against you. On the contrary, I set great store by prudence. This being the case, I’ll go ahead and speak openly. You’re clearly trustworthy, and our secret is in good hands. I want you to know, Signora Porporina, that I am more your friend than you think, for I’m one of yours. I’ve thrown in my lot with Prince Heinrich’s camp.”
“So Prince Heinrich has a camp?” asked Porporina, curious to learn in what plot she was involved.
“Don’t pretend ignorance,” the baron went on. “They’re suffering a lot of persecution just now, but the cause is far from desperate. The grand lama or Monsieur le marquis, as you wish, isn’t all that steady on his throne, and it wouldn’t be impossible to topple him. Prussia is a fine old warhorse, but it mustn’t be ridden too hard.”
“So you’re conspiring, Baron? Never would I have suspected that!”
“Who isn’t these days? The little tyrant is surrounded by ostensibly devoted servants who have sworn to bring him down.”
“How very careless of you, Baron, to confide in me this way.”
“If I do so, it’s with the authorization of the prince and princess.”
“What princess?”
“You know which one. I don’t think the others are conspiring! Except maybe the Margravine von Bayreuth, whose nose is out of joint about her paltry position, and she’s been furious with the king ever since he took her to task for her secret dealings with Cardinal Fleury. That’s already an old affair, but there’s no end to a woman’s spite, and Margravine Guillemette is no ordinary mind.1 How does she strike you?”
“I’ve never had the privilege of hearing a single word out of her.”
“But you’ve seen her in the Abbess of Quedlinburg’s rooms!”
“I’ve been just once to see Princess Amalia, and the only other member of the royal family whom I saw there was the king.”
“Never mind. Prince Heinrich told me to tell you. . . .”
“Truly, Baron?” asked Consuelo in a scornful tone.
“You’ll see that I’m not joking. He’ll have you know that things have not gone wrong for him, as they want to make you believe. None of his confidants has betrayed him. Saint-Germain is already in France working on an alliance between our conspiracy and the one that will very soon have Charles Edward back on the throne. The only one under arrest is Trismegistus, but the prince will arrange his escape. In the meantime, he knows that Trismegistus will keep his mouth shut. As for you, the prince begs you not to let yourself be intimidated by the marquis’ threats and, above all, not to trust those who would pretend to be on your side to make you talk. That’s the reason for the little test I gave you a moment ago, which you passed with flying colors, and I’ll tell our hero, our brave prince and future king, that you are one of the staunchest champions of his cause!”
Consuelo marveled at Herr von Poelnitz’s aplomb and could not choke back a laugh. When the baron, stung by her contempt, inquired about the reason for her untoward burst of hilarity, she could only say, “You are admirable, sublime, Baron!”
In spite of herself, Consuelo once again started to laugh. She would have laughed while being thrashed with a stick, like Monsieur Jourdain’s Nicole.
“When this attack of nerves is over,” said Poelnitz, unperturbed, “perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain to me your intentions. Do you wish to betray the prince? Do you really think it was the princess who delivered you up to the king’s wrath? Do you consider yourself freed from your oaths? Watch out, Mademoiselle! You may soon be sorry. Before long we’ll turn Silesia over to Maria Theresa, who still has certain designs in mind. From that point on she’ll be our powerful ally. Russia and France will surely reach out to Prince Heinrich; Madame de Pompadour hasn’t forgotten how Frederick snubbed her. A strong coalition and a few years of war can easily topple this proud sovereign who is moreover hanging only by a thread. . . . With the new monarch’s love you can expect great wealth. At the very least, the Elector of Saxony will lose the Polish throne, and Prince Heinrich will go reign in Warsaw, and so. . . .”
“So, according to you, Baron, there’s a conspiracy to make Europe wallow in fire and blood all over again, and all for the pleasure of Prince Heinrich? And to satisfy his ambition, the prince would stoop so low as to betray his country into foreign hands? I have a hard time believing that such despicable things are possible. If that’s unfortunately the truth, I’m deeply ashamed to pass as your accomplice. Let’s put an end to this comedy, I beg you. For fifteen minutes you’ve been doing your clever best to make me confess imaginary crimes. I’ve heard you out to learn on what pretext I’m being kept in prison. I still don’t know what I’ve done to deserve being pursued by such vile, relentless hatred. If you wish to tell me, I’ll try and prove my innocence. Until then I can only say this: I’m amazed by all the fine things you’re telling me, and I have no sympathy for such projects.”
“If that’s really all you know, Mademoiselle,” said Poelnitz, greatly mortified, “I’m stunned that the prince would be so careless as to tell me to speak plainly to you, before making sure that you were a party to all his projects.”
“I repeat, Baron, I know absolutely nothing about the prince’s projects, but I’m very sure of this one thing. He never told you to say a single word to me about them. Please forgive me for flatly contradicting you, but I don’t believe it. While I respect your age, I cannot help despising the hideous role you’re playing with me just now.”
“I’m scarcely wounded by the absurd suspicions of a woman’s mind,” he replied, finding it impossible to back away from his lies. “One day you’ll do me justice. Persecution is upsetting, and prison necessarily inspires gloomy thoughts, so it comes as no surprise that you’ve suddenly lost your discernment and insight. In conspiracies one must always expect such vagaries, especially from the ladies, for which you have my pity and forgiveness. Besides, it may be that in all this you’re nothing more than Trenck’s devoted friend and an august princess’s confidante. . . . These secrets are of such a delicate nature that I don’t want to go into them with you. Prince Heinrich himself closes his eyes to them, even though he knows that his sister joined the conspiracy only because she hoped that Trenck would be rehabilitated and might marry her.”
“I don’t know anything about that either, Baron. And if you were truly devoted to an august princess, I don’t think you’d be telling me such strange things about her.”
When the racket of wheels on cobblestones put an end to this conversation, the baron, at wit’s end, was greatly relieved. They were entering the city. Two sentries who did not mean to let Consuelo out of their sight escorted her to her dressing room and through the wings. She received a rather chilly welcome from the other members of the troupe. They loved her, but none of them felt the courage to protest by any outward signs the disgrace decreed by the king. They were sad, stiff, and seemingly stricken by the fear of contamination. Preferring to attribute this behavior not to cowardice but compassion, Consuelo read on their drawn faces that she was going to spend a long time in captivity. She did her best to show them that she was undaunted and stepped out onto the stage with pluck and self-assurance.
At that moment something rather odd happened in the auditorium. As Porporina’s arrest had created a great stir, as every person in attendance was devoted to the king out of conviction or position, they all stuffed their hands into their pockets to resist applauding the disgraced singer out of desire or habit. Every eye was on the monarch who was sweeping an investigatory gaze over the crowd, seeming to impose utter silence on them. All of a sudden a crown of flowers came flying out of nowhere and landed at Porporina’s feet. At one and the same ti
me several voices said loudly enough to be heard in various parts of the auditorium, “It’s the king! The king’s pardon!” This remarkable assertion flew from mouth to mouth with the speed of lightning. Convinced that they were doing their duty as well as obliging the king, the audience began clapping, and a storm of applause, such as no one ever remembered hearing in Berlin, burst forth from every seat in the house. For several minutes Porporina, speechless and overwhelmed by such a bold protest, was unable to begin her role. Dumbfounded, the king turned around and gave the audience a dreadful look that was taken as a sign of support and encouragement. Buddenbrock himself, who was not sitting far from the king, asked young Benda what was going on. After being told that the crown came from the king, he began applauding with a miffed look that was truly comical. Porporina thought she was dreaming; the king was pinching himself to see if he were well awake.
Whatever the cause and aim of this triumphant ovation, Consuelo felt its salutary effects. She outdid herself and excited the same wild applause throughout the whole first act. During the first intermission, however, the misunderstanding had bit by bit dissipated, and only the humblest members of the audience, too far removed from the whispers of courtiers to learn the error of their ways, stubbornly went on showing their favor. Finally, at the second intermission, everyone knew from various speeches in the corridors and foyer that the king seemed most displeased with the audience’s unreasonable attitude. It was said that Porporina, with unheard-of audacity, had formed a cabal and that anyone known to have participated in that little fiasco would surely regret it. During the third act, despite Porporina’s marvelous singing, the auditorium fell into such a deep hush after each of her parts that one could have heard the flutter of a fly’s wing. Meanwhile her fellow performers reaped all the fruits of this backlash.
Porporina had been promptly disillusioned about her triumph.
“My poor friend,” said Conciolini handing her the crown in the wings after the first scene, “I pity you for having such dangerous friends. They’ll seal your doom.”
During the intermission Porporino came to her dressing room and whispered, “I had told you to watch out for Saint-Germain, but it was too late. There are traitors in every camp. Don’t be any less faithful to friendship and docile to your conscience. You are defended by a stronger arm than the one oppressing you.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Porporina. “Are you one of those. . . .”
“I mean that God will defend you,” replied Porporino, who seemed afraid of being overheard and pointed to one of the partitions between the dressing rooms. They were ten feet tall but stopped considerably short of the ceiling, which meant that one could easily hear what was going on in the next cubicle.
“I foresaw that you would need money, and I’ve brought you some,” he said in an even lower voice, handing her a purse.
“Thank you,” said Consuelo. “If the jailer, who charges me high prices for supplies, comes after you with a bill, refuse to pay. This ought to keep him happy for a long time. He’s a real usurer.”
“That’s enough,” said Porporino, a good and loyal man. “I’ve got to go now. If it looked as though we were sharing secrets, things would only be the worse for you.”
He slipped away, and Consuelo received a visit from Mme de Cocceï (Signora Barberini), who bravely showed her lots of interest and affection. The Marquise d’Argens (Mlle Cochois) joined them, looking a bit starchy and talking like a queen on an errand of mercy. Consuelo was nonetheless grateful for her gesture and begged her not to jeopardize her husband’s fine position by staying much longer.
The king asked Poelnitz, “Well, did you question her? Did you find a way to make her talk?”
“No more than if she’d been a statue,” replied the baron.
“Did you make her understand that I’d pardon everything if she’d just tell me what she knows about the sweeper and what Saint-Germain said to her?”
“She couldn’t care less.”
“Did you frighten her about the duration of her captivity?”
“Not yet. Your Majesty had told me to go gently on her.”
“So put a scare in her on the way back.”
“I’ll try, but it won’t do any good.”
“What is she? A saint, a martyr?”
“She’s a fanatic, a woman possessed, maybe the devil in petticoats.”
“In that case, she’s in real trouble! I wash my hands of the girl. The season of Italian opera will be over in the next few days. See to it that they manage to finish up without her, and don’t let me hear another word about her until next year.”
“A whole year! Your Majesty will never stick to that!”
“Better than your head sticks to your shoulders, Poelnitz!”
1. Sophie Wilhelmine, who signed her letters to Voltaire with the name Soeur Guillemette.
Chapter XVII
Although Poelnitz had enough grudges against Porporina to seize this chance for revenge, he did nothing. He was a consummate coward and could only get nasty with those who threw themselves on his mercy. The slightest suggestion that he had overstepped his bounds made him cringe, and he seemed to feel instinctive respect for anyone who saw through his schemes. He had even been seen to turn away from those who pampered his vices to follow, his tail between his legs, others who trampled him underfoot. Was this because he knew his own weakness or cherished a memory of lost dignity? One would like to believe that in the most corrupt souls there is still a vestige of better instincts that have been stifled or subsist only as pain and remorse. It is a fact that for a long time Poelnitz had stuck close to Prince Heinrich, pretending to sympathize with his sorrows, often urging him to complain about his mistreatment at the hands of the king and giving him an example of how to do it; then he would go repeat the prince’s words back to the king, even making them more venomous so as to magnify Frederick’s wrath. Poelnitz had practiced this vile trade for reasons of pleasure; for, at bottom, he did not hate the prince. He did not hate anyone aside from the king, who went on redoubling his disgrace without wanting to line his pockets. Poelnitz loved guile for its own sake. Deception was a flattering triumph in his eyes. Stabbing the king in the back and getting others to do the same gave him real pleasure. And when he relayed these curses to Frederick, all the while priding himself on having provoked them, he inwardly enjoyed being able to pull the same trick on his master by concealing the joy he had felt jeering at the king, betraying him, revealing his foibles, follies, and vices to his enemies. Thus, both sides were his dupes, and that life of intrigue in which he stirred up hatred without exactly serving the hatred of any particular person was for him full of secret delights.
Prince Heinrich meanwhile wound up noticing that each time he let his sour feelings show in front of the obliging baron, a few hours later the king would be more angry and insulting with him than usual. If he complained to Poelnitz about being under arrest for twenty-four hours, he would find his sentence doubled the next day. Finally this prince, as frank as he was brave, as trusting as Frederick was suspicious, opened his eyes to the baron’s wretched character. Rather than dealing with Poelnitz gingerly, he flew into a rage and let him have it. From that point on, the baron kowtowed to the prince and made no more mischief for him. Deep in his heart he even seemed to love the man, inasmuch as his heart was able to love. Tender feelings washed over Poelnitz as he extolled Prince Heinrich and his qualities. These marks of respect looked so sincere that people were amazed by the incomprehensible quirks of such a man.
The truth is that Poelnitz found the king’s brother a thousand times more generous and tolerant than the king himself and would have preferred Heinrich as his master. Like the king, he had a sense or vague hunch about some sort of mysterious plot involving the prince. Yearning to be the one pulling the strings, he was eager to know if it stood a good enough chance of success for him to join in. So it was with the intention of clarifying things for his own sake that he had tried to deceive Consuelo. Had
she revealed the little that she knew, he would not have tattled to the king, not unless Frederick had paid him handsomely. Yet Frederick was too thrifty to have great scoundrels at his orders.
Poelnitz had pried a few pieces of the puzzle out of the Count de Saint-Germain by saying with such conviction such dreadful things about the king that this clever adventurer had let his guard down a bit too far. Let it be said in passing that Saint-Germain had a streak of enthusiasm and folly; while he was phony and even jesuitical in many respects, there lay beneath all that a fanatical conviction that stood in remarkable contrast to these qualities and made him do many thoughtless things.