The Countess von Rudolstadt

by George Sand

  As everything was strange and unusual about this mysterious being, he seemed neither surprised, emboldened, nor intoxicated by Consuelo’s involuntary transport. Once more he slowly pressed her to his heart, and even though his embrace was extraordinarily strong, it did not give her the pain that violent pressure always causes a delicate being. Nor did she feel the horror and shame that such a remarkable lapse from her customary reserve should have brought on after a moment’s reflection. No thought came to trouble the ineffable serenity of that moment of love known and shared as if by miracle. This was the first such moment in her life. It was for her a matter of instinct, rather a revelation, and its charm was so complete, so deep, so divine that it seemed that nothing could ever change it. The stranger was to her a being apart, some kind of angel by whose love she was sanctified. He brushed Consuelo’s eyelids with his fingertips, softer than the petals of a flower, and she instantly fell back asleep as if by enchantment. He stayed awake this time, but with an air of composure, as though he were invincible, as though no arrows of temptation could have penetrated his armor. He kept watch while carrying Consuelo off to unknown places, like an archangel bearing under his wing a young seraph utterly dazed and consumed by God’s radiant beams.

  Dawn and the morning chill finally roused Consuelo out of this sort of lethargy. Finding herself alone in the carriage, she wondered if she had loved in a dream. She tried to lower one of the blinds, but they were all fastened with an outside bolt or a spring she did not how to work. She was able to get air and watch the white or green shoulders of the road running by as broken, confused lines, but could not make out anything about the countryside nor for that reason make any observation, any discovery about where she was headed. There was something absolute and despotic about the protection encompassing her. This looked like an abduction, and she began to feel worried and frightened.

  With the stranger gone, the poor sinner finally felt all the anguish of shame, all the stupor of amazement wash over her. Perhaps there were not many Opera girls (as female dancers and singers were then called) who would have tortured themselves for responding to the kiss of a very discreet stranger in the dark, especially since Karl had assured Porporina that he was a young man with admirable presence and looks. Yet that act of folly was so far outside the ways and ideas of virtuous, wise Consuelo that she felt deeply humiliated. Begging Albert’s ghost for forgiveness, she blushed down to the bottom of her soul for having been unfaithful in her heart to him so precipitously, with so little reflection and dignity. “The evening’s tragic events and the joy of my deliverance must have made me delirious,” she thought to herself. “How else could I have imagined feeling love for a man who didn’t say a single word to me, whose name I don’t know, and whose face I haven’t even seen! That’s like the most shameful adventures at masked balls, those ridiculous attacks of desire that Corilla confessed to me, that I considered impossible for any woman aside from her. What contempt that man must have felt for me! He must not have taken advantage of my folly because of his sense of honor, or because he’s no doubt bound by oath to higher duties, or else because he was right to scorn me. How I hope he understood or divined that I was just suffering a bout of fever, a moment of delirium!”

  It was in vain that Consuelo heaped upon herself all these reproaches, for she could not defend herself against a bitter regret still greater than all the jeers of her conscience—she had lost her traveling companion, and she felt that she had no right nor any strength to accuse or curse him. Deep down she considered him a superior being with powers that were magical, perhaps diabolical, but certainly irresistible. She was afraid of him, and yet she wished not to have been so abruptly cut off from him and for all eternity.

  The carriage slowed to a walk, and Karl opened a blind. “If you wish to walk a bit, Signora, the chevalier urges you to do so,” he said. “It’s a steep climb for the horses, and we’re in the middle of the woods. There’s apparently no danger.”

  Consuelo leaned on Karl’s shoulder and hopped down to the ground without giving him time to lower the steps. She hoped to catch sight of her traveling companion, her impromptu lover. Indeed she saw him, but thirty paces ahead, which meant that his back was turned, and he was still draped in that huge grey cloak that he seemed determined to wear day and night. His bearing and the little she could see of his hair and boots revealed great distinction as well as the elegance of a man who strove to enhance by gallant attire, as one was wont to say, the advantages of his person. The hilt of his sword caught the rays of the rising sun and shone like a star on his flank while the powder that fashionable people of the time chose with the greatest of care let trail behind him in the morning air the sweet-smelling trace of a proper gentleman.

  “Alas, my God,” Consuelo thought to herself, “maybe he’s some fop, a phony little lord or proud aristocrat. Whoever he is, he’s turned his back on me this morning, and he’s certainly right.”

  “Why do you call him the chevalier?” she asked Karl, continuing her thoughts aloud.

  “Because that’s what I hear the postilions call him.”

  “The chevalier of what?”

  “Just the chevalier, nothing more. But why do you ask, Signora? Since he doesn’t want you to know who he is, it seems to me that he’s rendering you such great services at the risk of his own life that you ought to leave well enough alone. As for me, I’d travel around with him for ten years without asking where he was taking me. He’s so handsome, so brave, so good, so lighthearted!”

  “So lighthearted? That man is lighthearted?”

  “For sure. He is so happy to have saved you that he can’t keep quiet about it. He asks me a thousand questions about Spandau, about you, about Gottlieb, yours truly, and the King of Prussia. I tell him everything I know, everything that has happened to me, even the adventure at Roswald! It feels so good to talk Bohemian and have the ear of a quick-witted man who understands, instead of all these Prussian asses who only understand their own lousy language.”

  “So he’s Bohemian?”

  “I took the liberty of asking, and he just said no. He was even a bit gruff. I was wrong to question him when he only wanted to hear my answers.”

  “Does he always wear a mask?”

  “Only around you, Signora. Oh, the man’s a joker; he’s no doubt teasing you.”

  Karl’s cheerful banter and confidence did not entirely reassure Consuelo. She could see that he was very brave and determined, but also so straightforward and simple-hearted that he might be easily deceived. Hadn’t he counted on Mayer’s sincerity? Hadn’t he pushed her into the wretched man’s room? And now he was blindly obeying a stranger to carry her off, perhaps exposing her to seductions more refined and more dangerous! She recalled the note from the Invisibles: “A trap is being laid for you, a new danger threatens you. Beware of anyone urging you to escape before we have given you sure directives. Persevere in your strength, etc.” No other note had come to confirm this one, and Consuelo, giving herself up to the joy of seeing Karl again, had believed this worthy servant sufficiently sanctioned to serve her. Was the stranger not a traitor? Where was he taking her with such mystery? Consuelo did not know of anyone among her friends who had anything like the chevalier’s splendid bearing except for Frederick von Trenck. Yet Karl knew him perfectly well, so it was not he. The Count de Saint-Germain was older, Cagliostro less tall. After studying the stranger from a distance to try and discern an old friend in him, Consuelo came to the conclusion that she had never seen anyone walk with such ease and grace. Albert alone could have had such majesty; but his slow gait and habitual prostration had nothing of the stranger’s air of strength, his chivalrous mien.

  The woods were thinning out, and the horses began trotting to join up with the travelers who had gone on ahead. Without turning around, the chevalier stretched out his arms and shook his handkerchief whiter than snow. Karl understood the signal and had Consuelo get back into the carriage, saying, “By the way, Signora, under the seats y
ou’ll find big trunks with linens, clothes, and everything you may need for lunch and dinner, if necessary, books as well. In short, this seems to be a hotel on wheels, and you may not be leaving it for a while.”

  “Karl,” said Consuelo, “please ask the chevalier if I’ll be free, once we’re over the border, to thank him and go my own way.”

  “Oh, Signora, I’d never dare say anything so unpleasant to such a gracious man.”

  “Never mind, I insist. Give me his answer at the next stop, since he doesn’t wish to talk to me.”

  The stranger replied that the traveler was perfectly free, that her every wish was a command; yet her safety, the life of her guide and Karl’s as well depended on not interfering with the plans for her itinerary and place of refuge. Karl added, with an ingenuous air of reproach, that this lack of trust seemed to have pained the chevalier considerably, that he had become sad and gloomy. This made her feel sorry, and she told Karl to tell him that she was putting her fate in the hands of the Invisibles.

  The whole day was uneventful. Shut up and hidden away in the carriage like a prisoner of state, Consuelo could not begin to guess where she was headed. She was extremely happy to change her clothes, for she had noticed by daylight a few drops of Mayer’s black blood on her dress and was horrified. She tried to read, but her mind was too preoccupied. She decided to sleep as much as possible, hoping to forget more and more the mortification of her last adventure. But when it was night, and the stranger remained up in the driver’s seat, she felt even more embarrassed. He, obviously, had not forgotten a single thing, and his respectful delicacy made Consuelo even more ridiculous and guilty in her own eyes. At the same time, she suffered for the discomfort and fatigue he was enduring up on that seat which was tight for two people sitting side by side, he who seemed to be of such studied elegance with a soldier who was indeed very neatly disguised as a servant, but whose trusting, long-winded conversation could eventually become hard to bear; lastly, because he was exposed to the night’s chill and deprived of sleep. So much courage might also look like presumptuousness. Did he consider himself irresistible? Did he think that Consuelo, now recovered from falling victim to her imagination for the first time, would not defend herself from his overly paternal familiarity? The poor child kept telling herself all this to console her downcast pride, but most certain of all, she wanted to see him again and feared above all else that his disdain or the triumph of too much virtue would make them forever strangers to each another.

  Toward the middle of the night they came to a halt in a ravine. The weather was gloomy. The wind in the leaves sounded like running water. “Signora,” said Karl opening the door, “here we are at the most difficult point in our travels: we’ve got to cross the border. With daring and money one gets out of every fix, people say. Yet it wouldn’t be wise for you to make a try on the main road and under the eye of the police. There’s no risk for a nobody like me. I’m going to walk the carriage, with just one horse, as if I were bringing this new acquisition to my masters at a nearby country estate. You, on the other hand, you take the shortcut with the chevalier, and some of the paths may be a bit challenging. Do you feel strong enough to do a couple of miles on foot over poor trails?”

  Having replied in the affirmative, Consuelo found the chevalier’s arm ready to accept hers. Karl added, “If you get to our meeting place before I do, you’ll wait for me without fear, won’t you, Signora?” “I fear nothing,” Consuelo replied with a mixture of tenderness and pride towards the stranger, “since I’m under the gentleman’s protection. But, my poor Karl, is there no danger for you?”

  Karl shrugged his shoulders and kissed Consuelo’s hand. Then he ran to see about the horse, and Consuelo immediately set out across country with her taciturn protector.

  Chapter XXII

  The sky became darker and darker, the wind kept rising, and our two fugitives had been struggling along for half an hour, sometimes over rocky paths, sometimes through brambles and tall grass, when all of a sudden rain began pelting down with extraordinary force. Consuelo still had not spoken a word to her companion, but seeing that he was worried about her and looking around for shelter, she finally said, “Have no fear for me, sir; I am strong, and I’m only sorry to see you exposed to such exertion and worry for a person who means nothing to you, who knows not how to thank you.”

  The stranger made a joyful gesture when he caught sight of an abandoned hovel in a corner of which he managed to shield his companion from the torrential downpour. The ruin no longer had a roof, and the protection afforded by an angle of the walls was so slight that the stranger had to stay out in the rain unless he stood right next to Consuelo. Yet he respected her situation and kept his distance so that she would have no reason to be afraid. But Consuelo soon found such self-sacrifice intolerable. She called him over, and seeing that he refused to budge, she left her shelter, trying to sound a playful note and saying, “Each one in turn, sir; I can certainly get a bit wet. You’re going to take my place, since you refuse to take your portion.” The chevalier attempted to lead Consuelo back to the spot which had become the prize in a contest of generosity, but she resisted. “No, I won’t yield. It’s clear that I offended you today when I said I wanted to part company with you at the border. I must atone for my wrongs. I wish it would cost me a good cold!”

  The chevalier yielded and took shelter. Consuelo, reckoning that she owed him great amends, came and stood next to him, even though she felt humiliated that it might seem as if she were making advances to him. Yet she preferred to look shameless rather than ungrateful in his eyes, and to this she tried to resign herself to atone for the wrong she had done him. The stranger understood her so well that he stayed as far away from her as possible in a space two or three feet square. Leaning against the remains of a plaster wall, he made a show of turning his head so as to avoid embarrassing her and giving the impression that he might be emboldened by the care she was showing him. Consuelo admired that a man condemned to silence, who condemned her to the same to some extent, divined her feelings so well and made his intentions so clear. Every passing moment raised her esteem for him, and that singular feeling made her heart pound so furiously that she could hardly breathe the air that the respiration of this incomprehensibly sympathetic man had turned to fire.

  A quarter of an hour later, the downpour had sufficiently abated so that the two travelers could continue on their way, but the rain-soaked paths had become nearly impassable for a woman. For a few instants the chevalier, apparently impassive, let Consuelo slip, slide, and hang onto him in order not to fall at every step. But suddenly, tired of seeing her wear herself out, he took her in his arms and carried her off like a child, even though she scolded him for it, but her reprimands did not go as far as resistance. Consuelo felt fascinated and overcome. She traversed the wind and storm in the arms of this somber chevalier who resembled the spirit of night, whisking his burden over ravines and bogs with such a fleet, sure foot as though he were an immaterial being. Thus they arrived at a ford in a stream. The stranger leaped in, lifting Consuelo higher and higher in his arms as the water got deeper and deeper.

  Unfortunately the heavy, sudden downpour had swelled the creek, now a fast, murky, foam-covered torrent with a deep, sinister gurgle. Already waist deep in the stream, the chevalier was trying so hard to keep Consuelo up out of the water that he risked slipping on the mucky bottom. Consuelo grew afraid for him and said, “Let go of me, I know how to swim. In the name of heaven, let go! The water’s getting higher and higher, you’re going to drown!”

  Just then a furious blast of wind knocked down one of the trees on the far bank, dragging into the water a huge mass of dirt and rocks which for an instant seemed to form a natural dam against the violent current. Fortunately the tree had fallen upstream, and the stranger began to catch his breath when the water, forcing its way through the jam, surged with such strength that it became nearly impossible for him to carry on. He stopped, and Consuelo tried to free herself f
rom his arms.

  “Let me go,” she said, “I don’t want to be the cause of your death. You’re not the only one who’s strong and brave! Let me struggle along with you.”

  But the chevalier pressed her against his heart with renewed energy. One would have said that he meant to die there with her. She was afraid of this black mask, this silent man who, like the water sprites in old German ballads, seemed to want to drag her down into the abyss. She dared not resist any longer. For more than a quarter of an hour the stranger fought, with truly frightening sangfroid and obstinacy, the furious water and wind, still holding Consuelo up out of the water, and moving forward about a foot every four or five minutes. He calmly assessed his situation. It was no easier for him to retreat than to advance; he had got past the deepest spot, and he felt that if he tried to turn around, the water might lift him up and make him lose his footing. At last he reached the bank and kept on going without letting Consuelo put a foot down, without pausing to catch his breath until he heard the whistle of Karl, who had been anxiously awaiting him. Then he placed his precious burden in the deserter’s arms and fell exhausted to the ground. His exhalations were nothing but deep groans; his chest sounded as though it were about to burst.

  “Oh my God, Karl, he’s going to die!” said Consuelo, throwing herself on the chevalier. “Listen to that rattle! That’s the sound of death. Let’s get the mask off. It’s smothering him.”

  Karl was about to obey; but the stranger, struggling to lift his icy hand, blocked his move.

  “He’s right!” said Karl. “I took an oath, Signora. I swore to him that even if he were dying before your eyes, I wouldn’t touch his mask. Run to the carriage, Signora, and fetch me my flask of schnapps on the driver’s seat; a few drops will revive him.”

  Consuelo tried to get up, but the chevalier held her back. If he was going to die, he meant to breathe his last at her feet.