by George Sand
“Thank God, and the Invisibles too, despite Supperville!” she said to herself. “The poor boy looks happy and healthier; his guardian angel the robin is with him. I think this foretells a happy fate for me as well. Now then, let’s not have any more doubts about my protectors. Suspicion shrivels the heart.”
After wondering how she could fruitfully spend her time in preparation for the new moral education that had been announced to her, she decided to read, for the first time since her arrival at ***. She went into the library over which she had cast only an absent-minded glance so far and resolved to give serious study to the choice of books at her disposal. They were few in number, but extremely curious and probably very rare, if not unique for the most part. It was a collection of the writings of the most remarkable philosophers of all time and every nation, but abridged and reduced to the essence of their doctrines and translated into the various languages that Consuelo understood. Several, never having been published in translation, were handwritten, especially those of the heretics and famous innovators of the Middle Ages, precious relics from the past of which the important fragments and even a few complete copies had escaped the Inquisition’s searches and the Jesuits’ last violations in the old heretical castles of Germany during the Thirty Years’ War. Consuelo was unable to appreciate the value of these philosophical treasures collected by some fervent bibliophile or brave disciple. The originals would have interested her because of the lettering and vignettes, but she saw only translations, carefully prepared and elegantly calligraphied by some modern scribe. Yet she preferred to hunt around for faithful renderings of John Wyclif, Jan Hus, and other Christian philosophers and reformers who, as precursors, contemporaries, or successors, were associated with these fathers of the new age of religion. Although she had not read them, they were familiar enough to her because of her long conversations with Albert. Leafing through their works, she scarcely read them now, and yet she knew them better and better. Consuelo’s soul was essentially religious, without her mind being philosophical. Had she not lived in the critical, clear-eyed world of her times, she would easily have turned to superstition and fanaticism. Yet such as she was, she understood Gottlieb’s frenzied speeches better than the writings of Voltaire, even though all the fine ladies of the day were reading him fervently. This girl, intelligent and simple, courageous and tender-hearted, did not have a head for the subtleties of argument. Her heart always enlightened her before her brain. Seizing upon all the revelations of feeling and quickly assimilating them, she could learn philosophy; and she had been remarkably taught for her age, sex, and position by Albert, with his friendly, eloquent, and warm words. By the nature of their constitutions artists learn more from the emotions of a lecture or sermon than from the patient, often cold study of books. Such was Consuelo. She could not read a whole page with concentration, but if a great thought, felicitously rendered and summed up in a colorful way, happened to strike her, her soul would cling to it; she would repeat it over and over again like a musical phrase; the meaning, however deep it might be, would penetrate her being like a ray of divine light. She would live on this idea, applying it to all her feelings, drawing from it real strength, remembering it her whole life long. And it was not for her an empty saying; it was a rule of life, armor for battle. What need had she to analyze and abstract the book where she had found it? The whole book was written in her heart as soon as the inspiration from which it had sprung took hold of her. Her fate did not order her to go any further. She was not aspiring to set up a scholarly philosophical system. She felt the warmth of secret revelations that are granted to poetic souls when their nature is loving. Thus she read for several days without reading a thing. She could not have given an account of anything, but more than one page where she had seen only a line were damp with her tears, and often she ran to the harpsichord to improvise airs whose tenderness and grandeur were the fervent, spontaneous expression of her generous feeling.
A whole week went by in which her solitude was no longer troubled by Matteus’s tales. She had promised herself not to ask him the slightest question anymore, and perhaps he had been scolded for his indiscretions, since he was now as taciturn as he had been garrulous during the first days. The robin came back to see Consuelo every morning, but without being accompanied by Gottlieb from afar. It seemed that the little creature (Consuelo was not far from believing that he was bewitched) had a schedule for coming by to cheer her up and returning promptly around noon to his other friend. In point of fact, there was nothing supernatural about this. Animals in liberty have habits and organize their days with even more intelligence and foresight than their domestic counterparts. One day, however, Consuelo noticed that he was not flying as gracefully as usual. He seemed hampered and out of sorts. Instead of coming to peck at her fingers, he was only interested in using his claws and beak to get rid of some pesky bind. Consuelo came closer and saw a black thread hanging from a wing. Had the poor little thing been caught in a snare, and had he escaped only by dint of courage and skill, with a piece of his noose? She had no trouble removing that thread, but it was a bit of a challenge to free him from a strand of silk that went neatly over his back and fastened under his left wing a tiny sachet made of very sheer brown material. In the sachet there was a note written in almost invisible letters on such flimsy paper that she feared her breath might make it disintegrate. From the first words she saw that it was a short message from her dear stranger, as follows.
“They entrusted me with a generous deed, hoping that the pleasure of doing good would calm my restless passion. But nothing, not even the practice of charity, can distract a soul over which you reign. I accomplished my task sooner than they thought possible. Now I’m back, and I love you more than ever. Yet the sky is looking brighter. I don’t know what transpired between you and them, but they seem more favorable, and my love is no longer treated like a crime, but a misfortune for me alone. A misfortune! Oh, they do not love! They don’t know that I cannot be unfortunate if you love me, and you do love me, don’t you? Tell that to the robin from Spandau. It is he. I carried him in my bosom. Oh, let him repay me for my care by bringing me a word from you! Gottlieb will faithfully deliver it to me without taking a look.”
Mysteries and romantic circumstances fuel love’s fire. Consuelo felt the most violent temptation to reply, and her fear of displeasing the Invisibles and scruple about breaking her promises held her back only slightly, it must be confessed. Yet the thought that she could be found out and cause the chevalier to be exiled once again gave her the courage to refrain. She set the robin free without a single word of reply, all the while shedding bitter tears over the pain and disappointment that this harsh treatment would elicit in her lover.
She tried to resume her studies, but neither reading nor singing could distract her from the ferment seething in her breast now that she knew the chevalier to be nearby. She could not help hoping that he would disobey for both of them, that come evening she would see him slip into the flowering shrubs of her garden. Yet she did not want to encourage him by showing herself. She spent the evening shut away, peeping through her venetian blind, her heart pounding, brimming with fear and desire, yet resolved not to reply to his call. Not seeing him appear, she felt hurt and amazed as though she had been counting on a daring deed even though it would have excited her blame and terror. In a matter of hours all of the mysterious little dramas of young, ardent love were played out in her bosom. This was a new phase in her life, with emotions she had never known before. In the evening she had often waited for Anzoleto on the quays of Venice or terraces of the Corte Minelli; meanwhile, she would go over her morning’s lesson or say the rosary, without impatience or fear, palpitations or anguish. That childhood love was still so close to friendship that it bore no resemblance to what she was now feeling for Liverani. The next day she waited anxiously for the robin, who did not come. Had he been snatched in midflight by some ferocious Argus? Had his exasperation with the silken girdle and the sachet, for him a hea
vy burden, stopped him from going out? But he was so intelligent, he would have remembered that Consuelo had freed him the day before and come to beg her to do him another favor.
Consuelo spent the day weeping. She whose eyes remained dry in great disasters, she who had not shed a single tear over her misfortune at Spandau, she felt shattered and consumed by the sufferings of love and sought in vain the strength with which she had confronted all the other hardships in her life.
In the evening she was doing her best to read a score at the harpsichord when two figures in black suddenly appeared at the entrance to the music room without her having heard them come up the stairs. A cry of fear escaped her lips at the sight of these ghosts, but one of them said to her in a gentler voice than the first time, “Follow us.”
And she rose in silence to obey them. She was given a silken sash and told, “Cover your eyes yourself, and swear that you will do so conscientiously. Swear too that if the sash happens to fall off or slip down, you’ll keep your eyes closed until we’ve told you to open them.”
“I swear,” said Consuelo.
“Your vow has been accepted as valid,” replied the guide.
And Consuelo walked through the subterranean passages as she had the first time, but when she was told to stop, an unfamiliar voice added, “Take off the sash yourself. From now on no one will ever lay a hand on you again. Your only guard will be the word you’ve given.”
Consuelo found herself in a vaulted chamber lit by only one small sepulchral lamp hanging from the keystone in the center. A single judge, in a red robe with a ghastly white mask, was sitting in an antique chair at a table. He was bent over with age; a few silver locks escaped from beneath his cap. His voice was broken and quavering. At the sight of old age the fear that Consuelo could not help feeling in front of an Invisible changed to respectful deference.
“Heed me well,” he said, gesturing to her to sit down on a stool at some remove. “You are here before your confessor. I am the oldest member of the council, and the serenity of my entire life has made my mind as chaste as the most chaste of Catholic priests. I do not lie. Do you, however, wish to refuse me? You are free to do so.”
“I accept you,” replied Consuelo, “but on the condition that my confession does not implicate that of another person.”
“A vain scruple!” said the old man. “A boy at school doesn’t tell the teacher when his classmate misbehaves, but a son quickly alerts his father to his brother’s wrongdoing because he knows that a father curbs and corrects without punishing. That at least ought to be the law of the family. You are here in the bosom of a family that seeks to put that ideal into practice. Do you have faith in that?”
This question, rather arbitrary in the mouth of a stranger, was asked so gently, in a voice resonant with such sympathy, that Consuelo, suddenly carried away with emotion, replied without hesitation, “Yes, totally.”
“Heed this too,” said the old man. “When you first appeared before us, you said a few words that we took in and weighed: ‘it is strange moral torture for a woman to confess aloud before eight men.’ We’ve taken your sense of modesty into consideration. You will make your confession to me alone, and I won’t betray your secrets. I have been fully empowered, even though I am superior to none in the council, to guide you in a particular matter of a delicate sort, one that is related only indirectly to your initiation. Will you answer me without embarrassment? Will you bare your heart to me?”
“I will.”
“I’ll ask you nothing about your past. As you were told, your past does not belong to us, but you were warned to purify your soul from the instant that marked the beginning of your adoption. You must have reflected on the difficulties and consequences of this adoption; it is not to me alone that you owe that account; there’s a different matter between the two of us. So give me your answer.”
“I am ready.”
“One of our children has conceived feelings of love for you. In the last week have you been responding to that love or rejecting it?”
“I have rejected it in all my actions.”
“That I know. Your slightest actions are known to us. I’m asking you the secret of your heart, not of your conduct.”
Consuelo felt her cheeks burn and kept silent.
“You find my question very cruel. Yet you must answer. I do not wish to guess anything. I must know and record.”
“Well then, I love!” said Consuelo, carried away by the need to be true.
But no sooner had she uttered these bold words than she burst into tears. She had just surrendered the virginity of her soul.
“Why are you weeping?” asked the confessor gently. “Is it out of shame or repentance?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s out of repentance; I love too much for that.”
“Whom do you love?”
“You know that, but I don’t.”
“But what if that weren’t so? What is his name?”
“Liverani.”
“That’s no one’s name. It is common to all the disciples among us who wish to go by that name and make use of it; a nom de guerre, like those that nearly all of us employ in our travels.”
“I don’t know him by any other name, and it’s not from him that I learned it.”
“How old is he?”
“I haven’t asked him.”
“What does he look like?”
“I haven’t seen his face.”
“How would you recognize him?”
“By touching his hand, I think.”
“And if your fate were to hang on this test and you happened to be wrong?”
“That would be horrible.”
“So tremble for your recklessness, poor child! Your love is insane.”
“I know it well.”
“And you don’t fight it in your heart?”
“I don’t have the strength for that.”
“Do you have the desire to fight it?”
“Not even.”
“So your heart is free of any other affection?”
“Entirely.”
“But you are a widow.”
“I believe so.”
“And if you weren’t?”
“I would struggle against my love and do my duty.”
“With regret? With pain?”
“With despair perhaps. But I would do it.”
“So you didn’t love the man who was your husband?”
“I loved him like a brother; I did everything I could to love him like a lover.”
“And you weren’t able to?”
“Now that I know what it is to love, I can say that I wasn’t able.”
“Don’t feel any remorse about that; love is not subject to command. You think you love this Liverani? Seriously, religiously, ardently?”
“That’s what I feel in my heart, unless he is unworthy!”
“He is worthy.”
“Oh, father!” Consuelo exclaimed, transported with gratitude and ready to kneel down before the old man.
“He is as worthy of an immense love as Albert himself! But you must give him up.”
“So I’m the unworthy one?” Consuelo asked mournfully.
“You would be worthy, but you are not free. Albert von Rudolstadt is alive.”
“My God, forgive me!” Consuelo murmured, falling to her knees and hiding her face in her hands.
The confessor and the penitent kept a pained silence. But soon Consuelo, remembering Supperville’s accusations, was flooded with horror. Was this old man, whose presence imbued her with awe, lending himself to an infernal plot? Was he exploiting poor Consuelo’s virtue and sensitivity to throw her into the arms of a despicable impostor? She raised her head and, pale with terror, her eyes dry and lips trembling, she tried to pierce with her eyes the impassive mask that was perhaps hiding the ashen face of a culprit or the diabolical laugh of a scoundrel.
“Albert is alive?” she asked. “Are you quite sure of it, sir? Are you aware that there is a
man who resembles him, that I myself thought I was looking at Albert when I set eyes on him?”
“I know the whole absurd story,” replied the old man unperturbed. “I know all the preposterous things that Supperville has invented to exonerate himself from the crime that he committed against science by having a sleeping man buried alive. Two words will bring down that ridiculous house of cards. In the first place, Supperville was judged incapable of going beyond the lowest degrees of the secret societies of which we are the supreme directors, and his wounded vanity, plus his morbid and indiscreet curiosity, could not bear the outrage. Second, Count Albert has never dreamed of reclaiming his inheritance. He gave it up it of his own accord, and he would never agree to reassume his name and rank in the world. He couldn’t do it now without giving rise to scandalous disputes about his identity, which his pride would find intolerable. He may have misunderstood his true duties when he, so to speak, renounced himself. He could have made better use of his fortune than his heirs. He deprived himself of one of the means of practicing charity that Providence had placed in his hands, but he still has enough other ones. Besides, in this matter his love spoke louder than his conscience. He reminded himself that you had not loved him precisely because he was rich and noble. He wanted to forswear his name and fortune without any possibility of retrieving them. He did so, with our permission. Now you don’t love him, you love someone else. He will never ask you to recognize him as your husband, a title that he, in the throes of death, owed only to your compassion. He will have the courage to give you up. Our only power over you and the man you call Liverani is that of persuasion. If you want to run away together, we cannot prevent it. We have neither dungeons nor constraints nor corporal punishments at our service, no matter what a credulous, fearful servant may have told you in that respect; we hate the ways of tyranny. Your fate is in your hands. Go think things over once again, poor Consuelo, and may God inspire you!”