"No, madame; not unless I could love him, and never be a cause of trouble to him."
"What, did you not love him? Yet you descended in that abyss; you risked your life under-ground?"
"The mad Zdenko, not comprehending my design, and, like a faithful dog, jealous of his master's safety, was near murdering me. A torrent came near sweeping me away. Albert at first, not knowing me, almost made me share his folly; for terror and emotion make all hallucinations contagious. . . . At last, he was attacked by a new fit of delirium, as he bore me from the cave, and had very nearly closed the outlet. . . I exposed myself to all that, without loving Albert."
"Then you made a vow to Maria del Consuelo to rescue him?"
"Something like it, in fact," said Consuelo, with a sad smile; "an emotion of tender pity to his family, of deep sympathy to him, perhaps a romantic attraction, a sincere friendship, certainly, but not an appearance of love. At least, nothing like the blind, intoxicating and delicious passion I had entertained for the ungrateful Anzoleto, in which, I think, my heart was prematurely exhausted. What shall I say, madame? After that terrible expedition, I had a brain fever, and was at the very point of death. Albert, who was somewhat skilled in physic, saved my life. My slow recovery and his assiduous cares placed us on the footing of the closest intimacy. His reason returned entirely, and his father blessed and treated me as a beloved daughter. An old lame aunt, the Countess Wenceslawa, an angel of tenderness, and a patrician full of prejudices, even consented to receive me. Albert besought my love. Count Christian, too, pleaded for his son. I was moved, I was terrified. I loved Albert as one loves virtue, truth, and the beautiful; I was yet afraid of him; I dreaded becoming a countess, and of making a match, the result of which would be to raise against him and his family all the nobility of the country, and which would cause me to be accused of sordid views and base intrigues. Yet, must I own it, that was, perhaps, my only crime. . . . I regretted my profession, my liberty, my old teacher, and the exciting arena of the theatre, where, for a moment, I had appeared to glitter, and where I would disappear like a meteor. The burning stage on which my love had been crushed, my misfortune consummated, which I thought I could hate and despise forever, and yet, on which I dreamed every night I was either applauded or hissed. This must seem strange and unaccountable to you; but when one has been educated for the theatre, when one has toiled all life long for such combats and such victories, the idea of returning to them no more, is as terrible, as would be to you, Madame Amelia, that of being a princess on the stage, as I am twice a week."