BUT what was Cristiano about while M. Goefle was meeting with all these
adventures? The reader has probably guessed that the mocking goblin
wandering about poor Ulph in kitchen and cellar was our adventurer in
person, in pursuit of his supper. Ulph’s terrors and agonies enabled
him to carry off the most portable dishes in the kitchen, almost under
his nose. In the cellar he was less fortunate. On blowing out the
coward’s light, he had found himself in such utter darkness that he
was afraid of being shut up fasting in this subterranean vault. He had
hastened, therefore, to retrace his steps, while consoling himself with
the thought that he could seize the bottles which Ulph would be sure to
bring up, at a more favorable moment.
The adventurer had lost some little time in cautiously exploring the
secret passage of the bear-room, which we shall describe rather later;
escaping from it with some difficulty, he introduced himself secretly
into M. Stenson’s pavilion, and so had not been in a position to notice
M. Goefle’s arrival. He thought, therefore, that the supper was being
prepared for the old overseer. Before returning to his self-selected
lodging, he had still to find some supper for his ass, and for several
moments after Ulph’s final fit of terror, he was wandering about in the
small court adjoining the outer enclosure; hence he lost the diverting
spectacle of M. Goefle in his night-cap, leading the ass in triumph to
the stable, with the help of his kobold in red livery. As he explored
the old building in every direction, and opened all the doors that were
not firmly bolted, Cristiano came at last to the stable, where he was
delighted to see Master Jean eating his supper with a good appetite,
and trampling upon a thick litter of dry moss, in company with a
handsome black horse, who seemed to make him very welcome.
“Really, beasts are sometimes more reasonable and more hospitable than
men,” thought Cristiano, caressing the noble animal. “Since we have
been travelling in this cold country, Jean has been regarded with
amazement, fear, or repugnance, in the various villages and peasants’
huts where we have stopped, and I myself, in spite of the affable
manners of the people of this country, have fallen into a strange den
of gloomy or absent-minded beings, where I am obliged to go marauding,
like a soldier on a campaign. This good horse, on the contrary, makes
room for Jean in his stall, without asking him the meaning of his
long ears, and treats him from the start as an equal. Well, Jean,
good-night, my friend! If I should ask you who had brought you here and
supplied your wants to your heart’s desire, you would not perhaps have
the goodness to reply; and I should suppose, if I did not see that some
one had tied you by your halter, that you had been sensible enough to
come of your own accord. Well, anyhow I will follow your example, and
go and take my supper without thinking of the morrow.”
Cristiano shut the stable-door and returned to the bear-room, where he
was agreeably surprised to find the table set with handsome dishes,
heavy silver, and a white table-cloth, soiled only by a few sweetmeat
stains around Nils’s plate.
“Hallo!” cried the adventurer, gayly, “these good people have finished,
or rather they have begun with the dessert! But who the devil has been
here in my absence? Puffo would not have been neat enough to set the
table; that is not at all his style in travelling. Besides, he must
have gone to the new chateau to seek his fortune, or I should have met
him while exploring the old one. In fact, I never expected to receive
any assistance from that fellow. If he has found a comfortable place
for himself in some kitchen, no matter where, he will be sure to forget
all about me, and I was quite right to take care of myself. But no
matter, if he should happen to return here to sleep, the poor devil
must not freeze at the door of the chateau.”
Cristiano went and opened the door of the court, which Ulph, after
M. Goefle’s arrival, had taken pains to fasten, and returned firmly
resolved to have his supper, no matter with whom, by fair means or foul.
“I have a right to it,” he continued; “the dishes are empty, and the
food I bring fills them handsomely. If I have a companion here, and he
proves good-natured, we will join forces; otherwise we will see which
of the two is to turn the other out of doors.”
While talking in this way, Cristiano went to see whether his baggage
had been disturbed. He found it in the corner where he had left it,
and where it had not been noticed. He then examined M. Goefle’s
trunk, valise and effects; his clothes scattered about upon the
chairs (the linen carefully folded to be laid away in a closet, and
the coats stretched over the backs of the chairs to get smooth); and,
last of all, the empty valise, upon the cover of which he read these
words:--_M. Thormund Goefle, Advocate, Gevala; Doctor of Law, Faculty
of Lund_.
“An advocate!” thought the adventurer. “Well, he will talk, anyhow!
A lawyer must always have a little wit and talent. He may prove an
agreeable companion if he is sensible enough not to judge a man by his
coat. But where can he be hidden? He is some one, I suppose, invited
to the festivities at the Chateau de Waldemora, who, like myself,
found the house full, or who fancied stopping in this romantic manor.
Or he may be the business man of the rich baron, for it is scarcely
likely that citizens are admitted into the society of the nobles in
this country of castes and prejudices. It is nothing to me! The lawyer
has certainly gone out, in any event. He may be chatting with the old
overseer, or perhaps he is in the double-bedded room that we were
told about, although I see no signs of a door. Shall I look for him?
Who knows that he has not gone to bed? Yes, that is most probable.
The people here wished to wait upon him, but he declined everything;
contenting himself with sweetmeats, and longing only for his bed.
May he sleep in peace, the worthy man! For my part, I shall do very
well in this large arm-chair, and if I am cold--hallo! here is a
magnificent cloak lined with fur, and a sable travelling cap, that will
protect body and ears from the frost. Let me see whether they will be
comfortable! Yes, very indeed,” thought Cristiano, throwing the cloak
over his shoulders, and donning the cap; “and that is lucky for me!
What a strange puzzle life is! When I think that I have followed a
respectable profession for ten years, and yet have not a good cloak
to cover my poor body, now that I am lost in the polar regions, I can
scarcely believe my senses!”
Cristiano had already placed his booty, consisting of an appetizing
Hamburg tongue, a bear’s leg smoked to perfection, and a superb piece
of smoked and salted salmon, upon the table.
He was just going to throw off the doctor’s travelling suit so as to
eat more at his leisure, when he thought he heard the tinkling of bells
passing under the only window of the bear-room. This window, which was
opposite the stove, was large, and had a double sash, the universal
practice in all comfortable dwellings, whether ancient or modern, in
northern countries. However, the outside sash showed how Stollborg had
been neglected. Almost all the glass panes were broken, and, as the
wind had ceased, you could hear distinctly the noises from the outside;
the masses of recently fallen snow breaking off from the old solid beds
and sinking with a dull, mysterious boom down the perpendicular rocks,
the distant shouts proceeding from the farm on the shore of the lake,
and the melancholy howling of the dogs, saluting with unintelligible
maledictions the red disk of the rising moon.
Cristiano, who felt curious to see the sleigh which was cutting a path
over the frozen lake so near his refuge, opened the inner sash and
thrust his head through one of the broken panes. He saw distinctly a
fantastic vision gliding along at the foot of the rock. Two magnificent
white horses, driven by a bearded coachman dressed like a Russian, were
drawing lightly a sleigh that flashed and glittered with a shimmering
light, like a precious stone. The lantern on this elegant vehicle was
unusually high, and looked like a star swept along by a whirlwind, or
a will-o’-the-wisp furiously chasing the sleigh. Its light, thrown
forward by a reflector of red gold, cast warm gleams across the
blue moonlight on the snow, and painted with rainbow hues the vapor
streaming from the nostrils and sides of the horses. Nothing could have
been more graceful and poetic than this wheelless car, which might
have been that of the fairy of the lake, passing like a dream under
Cristiano’s dazzled eyes. It is true that he had seen sleighs of all
kinds, from the most luxurious to the most simple, in passing through
Stockholm and other cities of the country, but none of them had seemed
to him so picturesque and so singular as the one now stopping at the
foot of the rock. For, he could no longer doubt it, a new visitor, and
this time an opulent one, was coming to take possession of Stollborg,
or to reconnoitre that silent retreat.
“The sleigh has afforded me a beautiful spectacle,” thought Cristiano;
“but the devil take those who are in it! Here, I wager, is another
interruption to the peaceful supper I was promising myself.”
The rash imprecation died upon his lips! A sweet and really melodious
voice, a woman’s voice, which, according to Cristiano, could only
belong to a charming woman, proceeded from the sleigh. The voice,
speaking in the dialect of the province, which he did not understand,
made this remark:
“Do you think, Peterson, that your horses can ascend to the door of the
old chateau?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the large coachman, muffled up in furs,
“this evening’s snow will make it a little troublesome, but others have
been before us already. I see the fresh tracks. Don’t be afraid. We
will get there.”
The approach to Stollborg, which M. Goefle had called a _little
rock_, was an actual natural staircase, consisting of layers of
schistose rock of unequal thickness. In summer it would have been
enough to disable horses and carriages; but winter in the north renders
every road practicable and every traveller intrepid. A thick bed
of frozen snow, solid and smooth as marble, fills up all hollows,
and levels all inequalities. The horses, shod for the purpose, climb
dangerous heights, and descend boldly the most precipitous declivities;
sleighs are not often upset, and accidents, when they do occur, are
seldom dangerous. In a few moments this one stopped at the door of the
little chateau.
“You must ring cautiously,” said the sweet voice to the coachman; “you
know, Peterson, that I don’t want to be seen by the old steward, who,
perhaps, tells everything that happens to his master.”
“Oh, he is so deaf!” replied the coachman, jumping to the ground. “Ulph
won’t say a word, for he is my friend; provided always that he chooses
to open the door. He is a little timid at night, and no wonder, the
chateau--”
Peterson was probably going to tell about the ghosts of Stollborg, but
he did not have time to continue. The door opened as if of itself, and
Cristiano, as well muffled up as the coachman, thanks to the lawyer’s
cloak and fur cap, appeared at the threshold.
“No matter, here he is,” said the sweet voice. “Stand aside, Peterson,
and don’t forget to take off the bells from your horses; I begged you
so particularly to attend to it. Don’t be impatient, poor fellow, I
won’t keep you waiting long.”
“Take your time, mademoiselle,” replied the devoted servant, wiping the
icicles from his beard, “it is very mild this evening.”
Cristiano did not understand a word of this dialogue, but he listened
with none the less delight to the sweet voice, and he offered his arm
to a little lady so well wrapped up in ermine, that she looked like
a flake of snow rather than a human being. She spoke to him at once,
but still in Dalecarlian, so that he could not guess what she said,
although it was evident from her intonation, sweet as it was, that
she was giving him some orders. She mistook him for the keeper of
old Stollborg; and as the voice of command, in all countries alike,
requires no other answer than submissive gestures, Cristiano did very
well, without understanding and replying, during his short walk with
the little lady, whom he conducted along the wooden gallery leading
from the door of the court to that of the donjon.
In taking her to the bear-room, Cristiano obeyed instinctively his
natural hospitality, without knowing whether she would thank him for
his kindness. In the same way he had been led instinctively to go and
meet her by curiosity, and perhaps also a sentiment of gallantry, which
was still all-powerful at this epoch, over men of all ages and classes.
The young lady, who had followed her guide unsuspiciously, started with
surprise when she found herself in the famous room.
“Is this the bear-room?” she said, rather anxiously; “I have never been
here.”
Cristiano, who did not understand a word, made no reply; and looking at
him by the light of the only candle placed upon the table, she cried,
in Swedish:
“Good heavens! This is not Ulphilas! To whom have I the honor of
speaking? Can it be M. Goefle in person?”
The young man understood and spoke Swedish remarkably well. He
remembered instantly the name upon the lawyer’s valise, and saw--thanks
to the disguise of his cloak--that he would be able to amuse himself,
if only for a moment, by playing his part. Singular circumstances,
that we shall learn about in due time, had given him perfect command
of the Swedish language; but he was a stranger in the country. Utterly
isolated, and bound by no ties to any human being, he was not obliged
to be circumspect in his behavior, and considered it only natural to
divert himself whenever he had a chance. He replied boldly, therefore,
at a venture:
“Yes, madame, I am Monsieur Goefle, Doctor of Laws of the Faculty of
Lund, practising law at Gevala.”
As he spoke, he laid his hand upon a spectacle-case containing a pair
of green spectacles, which the lawyer was in the habit of wearing when
he travelled, to protect his eyes from the fatiguing glare of the snow.
Delighted with this discovery, which the special providence that
watches over children and hair-brained mad-caps seemed to have thrust
under his very nose, he put them on, and felt perfectly disguised.
“Ah, monsieur,” said the unknown, “I ask a thousand pardons, but I
did not see you. I have never had the pleasure of meeting you, and I
took you for the keeper of Stollborg. You must have laughed to hear me
ordering him to inform you that I requested a moment’s interview, and
promising him a fee for so doing.”
Cristiano bowed respectfully.
“Will you allow me, then,” resumed the unknown, “to converse with you
about an affair--a little embarrassing--a little delicate?--”
These two words delighted the adventurer to such a degree, that he
forgot all about his intense momentary vexation at having his supper
delayed by this unexpected visit, and only thought how much he should
like to see the face of his visitor, which was buried in her ermine
hood.
“I am ready to listen to you,” he said, in a grave tone; “a lawyer is a
confessor. But are you not afraid, if you keep on your cloak, that you
will catch cold when you go out?”
“No,” said the unknown, accepting the arm-chair which her host offered
her, “I am a true mountaineer; I never catch cold.”
She added artlessly:
“Besides, you will think, perhaps, that I am not suitably attired
for the conference that I have just solicited with a dignified and
respectable person like you, Monsieur Goefle; I am in ball-dress.”
“Good gracious!” cried Cristiano, thoughtlessly; “I am not a ferocious
old Lutheran! A ball-dress does not shock me at all; above all, when it
is worn by a pretty person.”
“You are very gallant, Monsieur Goefle; but I don’t know that I am
pretty and well-dressed; I do know, however, that I ought not to hide
my face from you, for any distrust upon my part would be an insult to
your loyalty, to which, in requesting your advice and protection, I
have just made appeal.”
The unknown threw back her hood, and Cristiano saw the most charming
head imaginable. It was a pure Swedish type, eyes of a true sapphire
blue, quantities of light golden hair of extreme fineness, one of those
exquisitely pure and fresh complexions which are never seen in equal
perfection among other races; and, just visible through the half open
pelisse, a slender neck, shoulders of snow, and a slight, flexible
form. This sweet vision was chaste as infancy, for the little visitor
was only sixteen years old, and had not done growing.
Cristiano did not pride himself upon his austerity; he was a man of
his time, but he was superior to the hazardous career into which he
had been thrown by circumstances. He was a person of intelligence and
natural delicacy. He gazed with quiet friendliness upon this Rose of
the North; and, if he had had any treacherous idea in drawing her
into this bear’s den, it was quickly replaced by the anticipation of
an adventure which, however gay and romantic, could not fail to be as
honest as the amiable and frank countenance of his young guest.
“Monsieur Goefle,” resumed the latter, encouraged by the respectful
attitude of the pretended lawyer, “now that you have seen my face,
which I hope is not that of a wicked person, I must tell you my name.
You will know it perfectly well. But it distresses me to see you
standing, when I am seated upon the only arm-chair in the room. I know
the respect that is due to a man of your worth--I was going to say of
your age, for I have always thought (I don’t know why) that you were
very old; while, on the contrary, you seem younger than the baron.”
“You flatter me,” replied Cristiano, pulling his furred cap, with its
ear-pieces, down over his eyes and cheeks; “I am old, very old! It is
only the tip of my nose that can appear young, and you must excuse me
for not uncovering in your presence. Your visit surprised me; I had
taken off my wig, and must hide my bald crown as I can.”
“Don’t speak of it, Monsieur Goefle, and please to sit down.”
“With your permission I will remain standing near the stove, on account
of my gout, which pains me,” replied Cristiano, who was standing with
his head in the shadow, while the feeble light of the only candle was
thrown entirely upon his visitor. “To whom have I the honor--”
“Yes, yes,” she replied eagerly. “Oh! you know me well, although you
have never seen me. I am Margaret.”
“Indeed!” cried Cristiano, in a tone that signified, “I know no more
than I did before.”
Happily, the young girl was impatient to explain herself.
“Yes, yes,” she replied, “Margaret Elveda, the niece of your client.”
“Ah, the niece of my client--”
“Countess Elveda, sister of my father, the colonel, who was the friend
of the unhappy baron!”
“The unhappy baron--”
“Ah, _mon Dieu_! Baron Adelstan, whose name I cannot pronounce
without emotion in this room, who was assassinated by the miners of
Falun--or by some one else! for, after all, monsieur, who knows? Are
you very certain that it was done by the workmen of the mine?”
“As to that, mademoiselle, I cannot say; if any one has a right to
swear upon his honor that he does not know anything about it, it is
your humble servant,” replied Cristiano, in an impressive tone, that
seemed forcibly to strike the young girl, who gave his words her own
interpretation.
“Oh, Monsieur Goefle,” she said earnestly, “I was perfectly sure that
you shared my suspicions. No nothing will ever persuade me that all
these tragic deaths that were talked about, and which are still talked
about, in whispers--but are we quite alone? can no one overhear us?
This is such a serious matter, Monsieur Goefle!”
“In fact it seems serious,” thought Cristiano, assuming the tottering
gait of an old man, and going to see whether the outside door was shut;
“the only trouble is that I don’t understand it all.”
He glanced around the room, but failed, as before, to notice the door
of the guard-chamber, which was closed between M. Goefle and our two
friends.
“Well, monsieur,” resumed the young lady, “can you believe that my
aunt wants to make me marry a man whom I cannot help regarding as the
assassin of his family?”
As Cristiano knew nothing at all about the facts in question, he tried
to draw out an explanation by chiming in with the views of his new
client.
“Your aunt must be a mad-woman,” he said, a little cavalierly, “or
something worse.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Goefle, she is my aunt, and it is my duty to
respect her! I only accuse her of being blind or prejudiced.”
“Blindness and prejudice be it then; it is really a matter of no
importance. What I see most clearly is, that she is trying to force
your inclination.”
“Oh! there is no doubt about that, for I have a horror of the baron!
Did she not tell you so?”
“Quite the contrary! I supposed--”
“Oh, Monsieur Goefle, how could you suppose that I, at my age, would
feel the least liking for a man fifty-five years old?”
“What! Is the person they want you to marry fifty-five years old into
the bargain?”
“You are only pretending to be in doubt, Monsieur Goefle! You cannot
help knowing his age; you are his lawyer, and, it is said, also his
devoted friend--but I don’t believe that at all.”
“The deuce! You are right. May I be hung if I care a fig for him! But
what is the name of the gentleman?”
“The baron? You do not know whom I am talking of?”
“How should I? There are so many barons in the world.”
“But my aunt has told you--”
“A truce to what she has told me! How can I remember all that your aunt
says? She doesn’t know her own mind, perhaps.”
“Oh, pardon me; she knows it only too well! She has a will of iron. She
must have told you about her plans, for she declares that you approve
them.”
“I approve of sacrificing a charming child like you to a dotard?”
“There now, you see that you know the baron’s age perfectly well.”
“But once again, what baron do you mean?”
“What baron? Is it possible that it can be necessary for me to mention
the Snow Man?”
“Indeed! The Snow Man? Very well, I must confess that I am no wiser
than I was before.”
“How, Monsieur Goefle, you do not know the surname of the most
powerful, the richest, and at the same time the most wicked and hateful
of your clients, the Baron Olaus de Waldemora?”
“What, the proprietor of this chateau?”
“Certainly, and of the new chateau on the other shore of the lake; the
owner, moreover, of innumerable iron mines, lead mines, and alum mines,
and of several valleys, forests and mountains, without referring to his
fields, cattle, farms and lakes; the seigneur, in a word, of a good
tenth part of Dalecarlia. It is because of his vast possessions that my
aunt is at me, from morning until night, to make me forget that he is
old, sickly, and perhaps burdened with crimes.”
“Good God!” cried Cristiano, in amazement, “I have accepted the
hospitality of an agreeable person!”
“You are laughing at me, Monsieur Goefle! You don’t believe in his
guilt, and you were jesting when you said just now--”
“All that I said I am ready to repeat. But I should like to know of
what crimes you accuse my host?”
“I don’t accuse him; public rumor has accustomed me to regard him as
the assassin of his father, his brother, and his sister-in law, the
unhappy Hilda--”
“Nothing more than that?”
“You know what is said, Monsieur Goefle; you were commissioned, were
you not?--Oh, no, it must have been your father, who was Baron Olaus’s
lawyer at that time. The baron brought forward deeds of some sort.
Nothing could ever be proved against him; but the truth was never
known, and never will be known,--at least until the dead come from the
tomb to tell it.”
“That sometimes happens,” replied Cristiano, smiling.
“Really, do you believe?--”
“Oh, that is one of our professional phrases, when an unexpected proof
is discovered, you know--a lost letter, a chance word, long forgotten.”
“Yes, I know, but nothing was ever found, and for fifteen or twenty
years the whole thing has been buried in silence and forgetfulness.
Baron Olaus was suspected and hated at first, but he has succeeded in
making himself feared, and that tells the whole story. At present, he
carries his presumption and confidence so far that he wishes to marry
again. Ah! may God preserve me from being the object of his pursuit!
It is said that he loved his wife devotedly; but as for the Baroness
Hilda, it is generally believed--”
“What is believed?”
“I see that these peasant’s stories have never reached you, Monsieur
Goefle, or else you laugh at them, since you have quietly taken up your
quarters in this room.”
“In fact there is some story connected with it,” replied Cristiano, as
a remark that he had recently heard flashed into his mind. “The people
at the farm said to me this evening,--‘Go there, and let us know in
the morning how you passed the night.’ The room is haunted, then, by a
goblin--a ghost--”
“There must be something strange here, whether a phantom or a real
being, for old M. Stenson himself believes so, and the baron also,
perhaps. It is said that he has never entered the room since his
sister-in-law’s death, and he has had a certain door walled up--”
“Yonder,” said Cristiano, pointing to the top of the staircase.
“It is possible,” replied Margaret, “I don’t know. It is all very
mysterious, and I thought you would be well informed about matters that
I am ignorant of. I don’t believe in ghosts. Still, I shouldn’t like
to see one, and nothing in the world would induce me to sleep here, as
you are going to do. As for the baron, whether the story of the diamond
ring is true or false--”
“What! another story--”
“Yes, and the most improbable one of all, I confess; I cannot help
laughing as I repeat it. They say, in the cottages of the neighborhood,
that the baron loved his wife--who was as wicked himself--so well,
that he gave her body, when she died, to an alchemist, who reduced it
in an alembic, and turned it into a great black diamond. It is certain,
at any rate, that he wears a strange ring upon his finger, which I
cannot look at without terror and disgust.”
“That is a good proof!” said Cristiano, laughing; “but only think if
a similar fate should be reserved for you. They would find nothing, I
know, in the alembic where you were baked, but a pretty rose diamond of
the purest water, but that would not be any more cheerful for you, and
I advise you not to run the risk of being crystallized.”
Margaret burst out laughing, but it frightened her to hear her fresh,
childlike voice echoed mysteriously through the old room. She became
sad, and said in a tone of discouragement:
“Well, enough of that! I see, Monsieur Goefle, that you are an amiable
and witty man, as every one says; but I was very much mistaken in
supposing that you would sympathize with me, and would be my guide and
protector. You agree with my aunt, you consider all I have told you a
mere dream, and you reject the cry of my heart. May God have pity upon
me! I have no longer any hope but in Him.”
“Wait a little!” replied Cristiano, moved to see great tears rolling
over rosy cheeks which had just been so smiling. “Why don’t you depend
more upon yourself? What have you told me, after all? You announce that
you have a confession to make of a delicate nature and all it amounts
to is that your friends wish you to marry a man who does not please
you, and towards whom you feel an antipathy. I thought you were going
to confide some love affair to me. You need not blush at that. A love
may be pure and honorable, even although ambitious parents disapprove
of it. A father and mother may be mistaken, and yet it is painful to
resist their influence. You are an orphan! Yes, you must be, since you
are dependent upon an old aunt--I call her old, and you shake your
head! Assume that she is young--she claims to be so, no doubt, and
I, it seems, am no longer a judge, for I considered her old. If she
is young, she ought all the more to be sent--I will not say to mind
her own business, but to reflect to some purpose, while you ask the
advice of some old friend, M. Goefle, for instance--that is to say,
myself--some one, in a word, who can put you in a way to marry the
happy mortal whom you prefer.”
“But I assure you, dear M. Goefle, that I do not love any one,” replied
Margaret. “Oh God! it would only need that to complete my misfortunes!
It is quite enough to be obliged to endure the importunities of a
person you hate.”
“You are not sincere, my dear child,” replied Cristiano, who was
playing his part so well and naturally that he really was beginning to
feel as if he were M. Goefle in person; “you are afraid that I will
repeat what you confide to me to the countess, my client.”
“Oh, no, no, dear Monsieur Goefle, it is not so, indeed! I know that
you are both honorable and kind-hearted. Every one considers you so,
and even the baron, who thinks ill of every one else, dares not say a
word against you. Such is my respect for you, my confidence in you,
that I have been watching for your arrival at Waldemora; and I must
tell you how the idea of seeking you in this way occurred to me: this
will give you my whole history in a few words, and I don’t believe my
aunt has related it very accurately.
“I was brought up in Chateau Dalby, in Woermland, twenty leagues
distant, under the eyes of my guardian, Countess Elfride d’Elveda,
my father’s sister. When I say under her eyes, you know what I mean!
My aunt loves society and politics. She accompanies the court to
Stockholm, and is much more interested in the affairs of the Diet than
in taking care of me. So, all my life, I have lived in a rather gloomy
chateau with my French governess, Mademoiselle Potin, who, fortunately,
is very kind, and who loves me dearly. My aunt makes us a visit twice
a year, to see whether I have grown, whether I am speaking French and
Russian well, whether I am in want of anything, and whether the pastor
of our church, who is very strict, takes good care that we do not
receive any visits besides his own, and those of his family.”
“Well, really, that is not very amusing!”
“No; but I have no cause to consider myself unhappy. I study a good
deal with my governess, I am quite rich, and my aunt is quite generous,
so that I have everything I want; and when the time seems a little
long to us, we read novels;--oh, such good and beautiful novels, that
make us forget our solitude, and whose moral always is that crime is
punished and virtue rewarded!”
“You may be sure of that! At all events, there is no harm in believing
it, and behaving accordingly. But there must have been some hero of all
this solitude, and of all these romances; did no handsome young fellow,
in spite of pastor or aunt, contrive to glide into the house, or at
least into your heart?”
“Oh! no, never, I assure you, Monsieur Goefle!” replied Margaret,
frankly. “But when my aunt told me suddenly eight days ago that she
had selected a husband for me, I will confess that I formed a certain
ideal of what he would be like; and when she pointed out Baron Olaus de
Waldemora, and said,--‘There he is, be amiable,’ he was so different
from what I expected, that I was not amiable at all.”
“I can understand that. And then, your aunt?”
“Oh, she laughed at me! ‘You are a simpleton,’ she said. ‘Girls of rank
have no business to think anything about love. They are not expected to
marry for love, but to secure a brilliant position. I intend you to
be Baroness de Waldemora; otherwise, I declare that you shall remain a
prisoner all your life in this chateau, without seeing a living soul.
I will do more: I will dismiss Mademoiselle Potin, who looks as if she
gave you bad advice. Choose;--I give you a month to decide. The baron
has invited us to spend the Christmas festivities[2] at his splendid
residence in Dalecarlia. It will be very gay there; hunts, balls,
entertainments of all sorts will be going on from morning until night.
You will be able to form an idea of his wealth, his influence, his
power, and you will acknowledge that you can never hope to make a more
brilliant or a more honorable marriage.’”
“And so you said yes?”
“I said yes, that I would come to Dalecarlia, since she gave me a
month for reflection. I was glad enough to see a new country, to go to
entertainments; in a word, to see a few human beings. But we have been
here now for eight days, and I give you my word, Monsieur Goefle, that
I consider the baron still more disagreeable than the first day I saw
him.”
“But you will meet at his house--if you have not done so already--some
one less disagreeable, to whom you will open your heart, as you are now
doing, and who will inspire you with a hope of happiness, a courage to
resist tyranny, that will help you a great deal more than the advice of
an old lawyer.”
“No, Monsieur Goefle, I shall open my heart to no one but you, and I
certainly shall not confide in the persons I may happen to meet at the
Chateau de Waldemora. I can see plainly that the baron’s guests are
people whom he has helped, or who need his help; servile or ambitious,
they fear or flatter him, and all of them (except a few excellent young
people whom I am very friendly with) bow down before me as if I were
already the wife of their patron! I hate and despise these provincial
courtiers, but I have faith in you, M. Goefle! You are the baron’s
businessman, but you are not his vassal. Your pride and independence
are well known. You see that my aunt did not succeed in deceiving me.
She told me that you would agree with her in everything, that you
would treat my romantic dreams with scorn and contempt, and would even
persecute me on account of them; but we heard a very different story
from the brother of Mademoiselle Potin, who is tutor in a family in
your province, and who knows you intimately. You know who I mean--M.
Jacques Potin, whom you have done so much for.”
“Yes, yes, a charming fellow!”
“Charming! no! He is hump-backed!”
“Charming in character! His hump has nothing to do with that.”
“That is true; he is a distinguished man, and he has told us so much
good of you, that I resolved to see you without letting my aunt know
it. Mademoiselle Potin--who is a capital hand at finding out what is
going on--learned the day and hour when you were expected at the new
chateau; and, as she was watching for your arrival, she heard at once
that you had gone to stop at Stollborg, because the new chateau was
too full. With a look she told me all, just as I was completing my
toilet, with my aunt’s assistance. My aunt had still her own toilet to
make, and as this always takes her two hours, at least, she went to her
own room. Mademoiselle Potin remained in mine, to make some excuse in
case the countess should send for me, while I slipped down a private
staircase to the shore of the lake, where Potin had told my faithful
Peterson to wait for me with the sleigh, and here I am! But there are
the fanfares at the new chateau, announcing the opening of the ball.
I must run away as quickly as possible. And then that poor coachman
must be frozen with waiting so long. Adieu, Monsieur Goefle! will you
allow me to return to-morrow, while my aunt is taking a nap? She always
dances a great deal, and gets very tired at a ball, and I can come
perfectly well, while I am walking with my governess.”
“Besides, if your aunt is angry,” said Cristiano, in rather too young
a tone, “you can tell her that I am lecturing you, just as she would
like to have me.”
“No,” said Margaret, with an instinctive feeling of distrust, “I do not
want to turn her into ridicule; and it will, perhaps, be as well for me
not to return. If you will promise me to make her abandon this horrible
marriage, I shall not need to trouble you with my anxiety.”
“I promise to interest myself in you,” replied Cristiano, more
guardedly, “as if you were my own daughter; but you must keep me
informed as to the success of my efforts.”
“Then I will return. How good you are, Monsieur Goefle, and how
grateful I ought to be to you. Oh, I was quite right in saying that you
would be my good angel!”
Margaret spoke warmly; and rising, held out her little hands to the
pretended old man, who kissed them most respectfully, while gazing for
a moment upon the ravishing little countess in her pale rose-colored
satin, trimmed with down. He helped her, in the most fatherly way, to
clasp her ermine pelisse, and put on her hood without crushing the
ribbons and flowers of her coiffure, and then escorted her back to the
sleigh, amid whose eider-down cushions she disappeared like a swan in
its nest.
The sleigh flew off, leaving a luminous track along the ice, and was
lost to sight behind the rocks along the shore before Cristiano, who
remained standing on the steep cliffs of Stollborg, had thought either
of the piercing cold or of his devouring hunger.
The fact is that the young adventurer, besides being a good deal
agitated (of this he took no note), was spellbound by a wonderful
spectacle. The bourrasque, completely lulled, had been succeeded by
a strong west wind (this wind brings clear weather in the north,
although it has an opposite effect in other climates), which had swept
the clouds from the sky in a few seconds. The stars were shining with
far more brilliancy than in southern countries. Cristiano felt as if
he had never seen them before. They looked literally like suns; and
the crescent moon also, in proportion as it arose in the purified
atmosphere, poured forth a powerful radiance, which, in any other
region, would have been super-planetary. The night, already so clear,
was made still brighter by the light reflected from the snow and ice,
and the grand features of the landscape were as sharply defined in the
transparent atmosphere as in a silver dawn.
These features were sublime. Granite mountains, with their angular
peaks covered with eternal snows, shut in a narrow horizon, open only
along the valley towards the south-west. The level surfaces and details
were a little obscured, but the general outline of the picture was
brought out with perfect distinctness by the immense side vault of the
blue sky left uncovered by the break in the granite chain. Cristiano,
who may be said to have groped his way to Stollborg through whirlwinds
of snow, knew the points of the compass well enough to understand that
he had come by this gently undulating valley, and he formed a very
correct idea of the direction of the gorges of Falun. This was the
station where he had breakfasted in the morning, while M. Goefle, whose
horse was strong and swift, had stopped there at a later hour and for a
longer time.
The valley, or rather the chain of narrow valleys leading from Falun
to the Chateau de Waldemora, came to an end abruptly in this place,
in an apparent cul-de-sac, an irregular amphitheatre of lofty summits
formed by one of the spurs of the Sevenberg chain (otherwise the
mountains of Seves, or Sevons), which separates central Sweden from the
southern part of Norway. Two fierce torrents descend from the heights
of Sevenberg, from the north-west to the south-east, follow the chain
to the right and to the left, and rush, in proportion as it lowers,
the one towards the Baltic and the other towards Lake Wener and the
Kattegat. These two torrents, which gradually become rivers, are the
Dala and the Klara; or, as we say, the Dal and the Klar.
Stollborg stood upon a small rocky island, in the centre of one of
the little lakes formed by the Klar, or by one of its rapid branches.
The reader will not care for minute geographical details, but we
can describe the principal characteristics of the landscape with
sufficient accuracy. It was a scene of wild and savage desolation;
the mountains shone in the limpid night like a group of crystal
fortresses built at unequal heights, in the boldest and most capricious
manner; snowy granite peaks shut in three-quarters of the horizon; a
lower range of snowy mica-schist peaks assumed forms less grand and
more fantastic; while everywhere a thousand frozen waterfalls hung
motionless in diamond needles along the rocks. These silent cascades
all converged towards the main stream, which was also imprisoned by the
ice, and welded, as it were, to the lake, whose shores could only be
traced by the debris and sharp peaks of naked stone whose black flanks
the winter had not been able to cover with its white uniform hue.
“I have often been told,” thought Cristiano, “that these severe
northern nights reveal unheard-of splendors, both to the eye and
imagination. If I should return to Naples and should tell them that
their nights appeal only to the senses, and that he who has not seen
winter upon his throne of frost cannot form the least idea of the
wonders of the divine work, I should probably be insulted or stoned.
What then? There is beauty everywhere under heaven, and he who feels
that beauty keenly, will always perhaps find the last impression the
most satisfactory and inspiring. Yes, this must really be sublime, for
here I am forgetting the cold, which I thought I should never be able
to endure, and finding a sort of pleasure even in breathing this air
that goes through you like a knife. I must certainly go to Lapland,
although Puffo forsakes me, and poor Jean perishes in the snow. I want
to see a night twenty-four hours long, and the pale glimmer of noon in
the month of January. I should have no success in that country, but my
moderate earnings here will enable me travel like a great lord, that
is to say, alone and on foot, with nothing to do but to see and enjoy
the fine flower of life, _novelty_, the quality that distinguishes
desire from lassitude, dream from memory.”
Eager and imaginative, the young man gazed far away into the circle
of high mountains, in search of the invisible route that he would
have to take in going to the north, or entering Norway. In fancy he
already saw himself reclining upon the edge of fearful abysses, while,
to the amazement of the old Scandinavian echoes, he sang some foolish
_tarantelle_, when the music of a distant orchestra struck upon
his ear, and he recognized the distant refrain of an old-fashioned
French song, probably very new among the Dalecarlians. The music was
at the new chateau, where Baron Olaus was giving a ball to his country
neighbors in honor of the charming Margaret Elveda.
Cristiano recalled his wandering thoughts. A moment before he had
been ready to fly to the North Cape; now his curiosity, thoughts,
aspirations, were all directed to the brilliant chateau, glittering on
the shore of the lake, and seeming to exhale whiffs of artificial heat
into the atmosphere.
“One thing is certain,” he said, “I would not for five hundred
crowns (and God only knows how much I need five hundred crowns)
quit this strange country to-night, even to be transported by the
_walkyries_ to the sapphire palace of the great Odin. To-morrow
I shall see this blond fairy again, this descendant of Harold the
Fair-haired! To-morrow?--no, indeed, nothing of the kind! I shall not
see her again to-morrow; I shall never see her again! To-morrow, the
fortunate mortal who has a legitimate right to the sweet name of Goefle
will go to the new chateau to confer with his client, and labor with
her perhaps, like a genuine heartless business man, to bring about the
marriage of the ferocious Olaus and sweet Margaret. To-morrow sweet
Margaret will know she has been deceived, and by whom? With what anger,
what scorn will she reward my good behavior and wise advice! But all
that does not prevent me from feeling hungry, and from being obliged to
acknowledge that this December night, between sixty-one and sixty-two
degrees of latitude, is rather cool. It makes me think of the time when
I used to complain about the winter in Rome!”
Cristiano was returning to the bear-room, when he thought he would
give a charitable look at his ass. As he entered the stable, he
noticed, for the first time, M. Goefle’s sleigh, which was standing
in the coach-house. Why, at the sight of this sleigh, the mind of the
adventurer, should have leaped suddenly to a mad resolution, we cannot
explain; but, on regaining his comfortable lodging, instead of sitting
down quietly to supper with his back to the stove, it is certain that
he began to contemplate the full black suit which the doctor of laws
had hung over the back of a chair.
Cristiano would have sworn that the grave individual whom he had
ventured to imitate was old-fashioned, and perhaps rather shabby in his
dress. Not at all. M. Goefle, who had been quite handsome in his youth,
dressed remarkably well, was careful of his person, and made it a point
of honor to appear in a simple but tasteful costume, doing full justice
to his good leg, and still erect and well-formed figure. Cristiano put
on the coat, which fitted him like a glove. He found the powder-box
and puff, and threw a light cloud over his thick, black hair. The silk
stockings were rather tight in the calf, and the shoes with buckles
rather large; but what of that! were the Dalecarlians so very critical?
In short, in ten minutes the young man was attired like a respectable
member of society; a professor of some science, a student in some
learned faculty, or member of a dignified profession! No matter what
his standing, his figure, at all events, was charming, and his costume
irreproachable.
The reader can guess that the adventurer led M. Goefle’s horse from
the stable, after begging Jean not to feel lonely; that he harnessed
the docile Loki to the sleigh, lighted the lantern, and darted like an
arrow down the steep road of Stollborg.
In about ten minutes, he entered the brilliantly lighted court of the
new chateau, threw the reins carelessly to the servants in livery, who
hastened forward at the sound of the sleigh-bells, and ran up the great
front steps of the elegant mansion four steps at a time.
[Footnote 2: The Christmas festivities in Sweden and Norway last from
the twenty-fourth of December to the sixth of January.]