exclaimed a voice from within; “it must be that confounded captain!”
As the postern swung open, the new-comer saw, in a dimly lighted Gothic
apartment, a young officer stretched carelessly upon a pile of cloaks
and reindeer-skins, beside one of the three-beaked lamps which our
ancestors used to hang from the rose-work of their ceilings, and which
at this moment stood upon the ground. The elegance and indeed excessive
luxury of his dress was in strong contrast with the bare walls and rude
furniture; he held a book, and turned slightly toward the new-comer.
“Is it you, Captain? How are you, Captain? You little suspected that you
were keeping a man waiting who has not the pleasure of your
acquaintance; but our acquaintance will soon be made, will it not? Begin
by receiving my commiseration upon your return to this venerable castle.
Short as my stay here may be, I shall soon be about as gay as the owl
nailed at donjon doors to serve as scarecrow, and when I return to
Copenhagen, to my sister’s wedding feast, the deuce take me if four
women out of a hundred will know me! Tell me, are the knots of pink
ribbon at the hem of my doublet still in fashion? Has any one translated
a new novel by that Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Scudéry? I have ‘Clelia;’
I suppose people are still reading it in Copenhagen. It is my code of
gallantry, now that I am forced to sigh remote from so many bright eyes;
for, bright as they are, the eyes of our young prisoner--you know who I
mean--have never a message for me. Ah! were it not for my father’s
orders!... I must tell you in confidence, Captain, that my father,--but
don’t mention it,--charged me to--you understand me--Schumacker’s
daughter. But I have my labor for my pains; that pretty statue is not a
woman; she weeps all day long and never looks at me.”
The young man, unable thus far to interrupt the officer’s extreme
volubility, uttered an exclamation of surprise:--
“What! What did you say? Charged you to seduce the daughter of that
unfortunate Schumacker!”
“Seduce? Well, so be it, if that is the name you give it now in
Copenhagen; but I defy the Devil himself to succeed. Day before
yesterday, being on duty, I put on for her express benefit a superb
French ruff sent direct from Paris. Would you believe that she never
even raised her eyes to look at me, although I passed through her room
three or four times clinking my new spurs, whose rowels are no bigger
than a Lombardy ducat? That’s the newest fashion, is n’t it?”
“Heavens! Heavens!” said the young man, striking his forehead; “but this
confounds me!”
“I thought it would!” rejoined the officer, mistaking the meaning of the
remark. “Not to take the least notice of me! It is incredible, and yet
it is true.”
The young man strode up and down the room in violent excitement.
“Won’t you take some refreshment, Captain Dispolsen?” cried the officer.
The young man started.
“I am not Captain Dispolsen.”
“What!” said the officer angrily, sitting up as he spoke; “and pray who
are you, then, that venture to introduce yourself here at this hour?”
The young man displayed his papers.
“I wish to see Count Griffenfeld,--I would say, your prisoner.”
“The Count! the Count!” muttered the officer in some displeasure. “But,
to be sure, this paper is in order; here is the signature of
Vice-Chancellor Grummond de Knud. ‘Admit the bearer to visit all the
royal prisons at any hour and at any time.’ Grummond de Knud is brother
to old General Levin de Knud, who is in command at Throndhjem, and you
must know that this old general had the bringing up of my future
brother-in-law.”
“Thanks for these family details, Lieutenant. Don’t you think you have
told me enough of them?”
“The impertinent fellow is right,” said the lieutenant, biting his lips.
“Hullo, there, officer, officer of the tower! Escort this stranger to
Schumacker, and do not scold if I have taken down your lamp with three
beaks and but one wick. I was curious to examine an article which is
doubtless the work of Sciold the Pagan or Havar the giant-killer; and
besides it is no longer the fashion to hang anything but crystal
chandeliers from the ceiling.”
With these words, as the young man and his escort crossed the deserted
donjon garden, the martyr to fashion resumed the thread of the love
adventures of the Amazonian Clelia and Horatius the One-eyed.