The World's Greatest Books - Volume 7 Part 34

The carriage containing Porpora and Consuelo had reached the city of Prague, and was on the bridge that spans the Moldau, when a horseman approached and looked in at the window, gazing with a tranquil curiosity. Porpora pushed him back, exclaiming:

"How dare you stare at ladies so closely."

The horseman replied in Bohemian, and Consuelo, seeing his face, called out:

"Is it the Baron Frederick of Rudolstadt?"

"Yes, it is I, signora!" replied the baron, in a dejected tone. "The brother of Christian, the uncle of Albert. And in truth, is it you also?"

The baron accompanied them to a hotel, and there explained to Consuelo that he had received a letter from the canoness, his sister, bidding him, at Albert's request, be on the bridge of Prague at seven o'clock that evening.

"The first carriage that pa.s.ses you will stop; if the first person you see in it can leave for the castle that same evening, Albert, perhaps, will be saved. At least, he says it will give him a hold on eternal life. I do not know what he means, but he has the gift of prophecy and the perception of hidden things. The doctors have given up all hope for his life."

"Is the carriage ready, sir?" Consuelo said, when the latter was finished. "If so I am ready also, and we can set out instantly."

"I shall follow you," said Porpora. "Only we must be in Berlin in a week's time."

The carriage and horses were already in the courtyard, and in a few minutes the baron and Consuelo were on their journey to the castle of the Rudolstadts.

At the doorway of the castle they were met by the aged canoness, who, seizing Consuelo by the arm, said:

"We have not a moment to lose. Albert begins to grow impatient. He has counted the hours and minutes till your arrival, and announced your approach before we heard the sound of the carriage wheels. He was sure of your coming; but, he said, if any accident detained you, it would be too late. Signora, in the name of Heaven, do not oppose any of his wishes; promise all he asks; pretend to love him. Albert's hours are numbered; his life is close. All we ask of you is to soothe his sufferings." Then, as they approached the great saloon, she added, "Take courage, signora. You need not be afraid of surprising him, for he expects you, and has seen you coming hours ago."

The door opened and Consuelo darted forward to her lover. Albert was seated in a large arm-chair before the fire. It was no longer a man, it was a spectre, Consuelo saw. His face, still beautiful, was as a face of marble. There was no smile on his lips, no ray of joy in his eyes.

Consuelo knelt before him; he looked fixedly at her, and then, giving a sign to the canoness, she placed his arms on Consuelo's shoulders. Then she made the young girl lay her head on Albert's breast, and the dying man whispered in her ear: "I am happy." With another sign, he made the canoness understand that she and his father were to kiss his betrothed.

"From my very heart!" exclaimed the canoness, with emotion. The old count who had been holding his brother's hand in one of his and Porpora's in the other, left them to embrace Consuelo fervently.

The doctor urged an immediate marriage.

"I can answer positively for nothing," he said, "but I venture to think much good may come of it. Your excellency consented to this marriage formerly----"

"I always consented to it. I never opposed it," said the count. "It was Master Porpora who wrote to say that he would never consent, and that she likewise had renounced all idea. Alas, it was the death-blow to my unhappy child!"

"Do not grieve," murmured Albert to Consuelo. "I have understood for many days now that you were faithful. I know that you have endeavoured to love me, and have succeeded. But we have been deceived, and you must forgive your master, as I forgive him."

Consuelo looked at Porpora, and the old musician reproached himself for homicide, and burst into tears. Only Consuelo's consent was necessary, and this was given.

The marriage was hastened on. Porpora and the doctor served as witnesses. Albert found strength to p.r.o.nounce a decisive "Yes," and the other responses in the service in a clear voice, and the family from this felt a new hope for his recovery. Hardly had the chaplain recited the closing prayer over the newly-married couple, before Albert arose and threw himself into his father's arms; then, seating himself again in his arm-chair, he pressed Consuelo to his heart, and exclaimed:

"I am saved!"

"It is nature's last effort," said the doctor.

Albert's arms loosed their hold, and fell forward on his knees. His gaze was riveted on Consuelo; gradually the shade crept from his forehead to his lips, and covered his face with a snowy veil.

"It is the hand of Death!" said the doctor, breaking the silence.

Consuelo would take neither her husband's t.i.tle nor his riches.

"Stay with us, my daughter?" cried the canoness, "for you have a lofty soul and a great heart!"

But Consuelo tore herself away after the funeral, though her heart was wrung with grief. As she crossed the drawbridge with Porpora, Consuelo did not know that already the old count was dead, and that the Castle of the Giants, with its riches and its sufferings, had become the property of the Countess of Rudolstadt.

Mauprat

It was while George Sand was pleading for a separation from her husband, on the ground of incompatibility of temperament, that "Mauprat" was written, and the powerful story, full of storm, sentiment, and pa.s.sion, bears the marks of its tumultuous birth.

_I.--Bernard Mauprat's Childhood_

In the district of Varenne, within a gloomy ravine, stands the ruined castle of Roche-Mauprat. It is a place I never pa.s.s at night without some feeling of uneasiness; and now I have just learnt its history from Bernard Mauprat, the last of the line.

Bernard Mauprat is eighty-four and no man is more represented in the province. Pa.s.sing his house with a friend who knew the old man, we ventured to call, and were received with stately welcome. Later Mauprat told us his story in the following words:

There were formerly two branches of the Mauprat family and I belonged to the elder. My grandfather was that Tristan de Mauprat whose crimes are still remembered. My father was his eldest son, and on his death, which occurred at a shooting party, the only living member of the younger branch, the chevalier, Hubert de Mauprat, a widower with an infant daughter, begged that he might be allowed to adopt me, promising to make me his heir. My grandfather refused the offer, and when I was seven years old and my mother died--poisoned some said by my grandfather--I was carried off by that terrible man to his house at Roche-Mauprat. I only knew afterwards that my father was the only son of Tristan's who had married and that consequently I was the heir to the property.

It was a terrible journey I made with my grandfather but more terrible still was the life led at Roche-Mauprat by Tristan and his eight sons.

Beset by creditors, the Mauprats with a dozen peasants and poachers defied the civil laws as they had already broken all moral laws. They formed themselves into a body of adventurers, levying blackmail on the small farms of the neighbourhood, intimidating the tax-collectors and at times not hesitating from petty thefts at fairs. Masters and servants were united in bonds of infamy. Debauchery, extortion, fraud, and cruelty were the precept and example of my youth. All notions of justice were scoffed at, and the civilisation, the light of education, and the philosophy of social equality, then spreading in France and preparing the way for the convulsion of the Revolution, found no entrance at Roche-Mauprat.

The eight sons, the pride and strength of old Mauprat, all resembled him in physical vigour, brutality of manners, and in a cunning ill-nature.

They gave themselves the airs of knights of the twelfth century. What elsewhere was called a.s.sa.s.sination and robbery I was taught to call battle and conquest. The frightful tortures heaped upon prisoners by my uncles gave me a horrible uneasiness, but what kept me from admiring the savagery that surrounded me was the ill-usage I received myself. I grew up without conceiving any liking for vice, but a tendency to hatred was fostered. Of virtue or simple human affection I knew nothing, and a blind and brutal anger was nourished in my breast.

As the years went by Roche-Mauprat became more and more isolated. People left the neighbourhood to escape our violent depredations, and in consequence we had to go farther afield for plunder. I joined in the robberies as a soldier serves in a campaign, but on more than one occasion I helped some unfortunate man who had been knocked down to get up and escape.

My grandfather died when I was fifteen. A year later and so threatened were we by crown officers, private creditors and infuriated peasants, that it was a question of either fleeing the country or bracing ourselves for a decisive struggle, and if needs be finding a grave under the ruins of the castle.

_II.--Meet my Cousin Edmee_

One night, when wind and rain beat fiercely against the old walls of the castle and I sat at supper with my uncles, a horn was heard at the portcullis. I had been drinking heavily, and boasting that I would make a conquest of the first woman brought to Roche-Mauprat--for I had been rallied on my modesty--when a second blast of the horn announced that it was my Uncle Lawrence bringing in a prize.

"If it is a woman," cried my Uncle Antony, as he went out to the portcullis, "I swear by the soul of my father that she shall be yours, and we'll see if your courage is equal to your conceit."

When the door opened again a woman entered, and one of the Mauprats whispered to me that the young lady had lost her way at a wolf hunt and that Lawrence, meeting her in the forest, had promised to escort her to Rochemaure where she had friends. Never having seen the face of one of my uncles, and little dreaming she was near their haunt, for she had never had a glimpse of Roche-Mauprat, she was led into the castle without having the least suspicion of the trap into which she had fallen. When I beheld this woman, so young and so beautiful, with her expression of calm sincerity and goodness, it seemed to me I was dreaming.

My uncles withdrew, for Antony had pledged his word, and I was left alone with the stranger. For a moment I felt more bewildered and stupefied than pleased. With the fumes of wine in my head I could only suppose this lady was some acquaintance of Lawrence's, and that she had been told of my drunken boast and was willing to put my gallantry to the proof. I got up and bolted and double-locked the door.

She was sitting close to the fire, drying her wet garments, without noticing what I had done. I made up my mind to kiss her, but no sooner had she raised her eyes to mine than this familiarity became impossible.

All I could say, was: