CRISTIANO was acting as we do in certain dreams, when we feel drawn
on to accomplish some improbable thing without being able to tell
how. Were not all his surroundings utterly improbable? This fantastic
chateau, called the new chateau, in opposition to the ruin of
Stollborg, but dating back, in reality, to the time of Queen Catherine,
and which, with its splendor and gayety, seemed to have fallen from
the clouds into the bosom of a savage desert; these avenues of naked
rock and furious waters, over which, thanks to the winter, elegant
equipages made their way without difficulty, although it seemed as if
they must be utterly impassable; the rows of lights outlining against
the darkness the principal walls with their thick towers, crowned with
coppered roofs surmounted by huge spires; the main building long,
irregularly flanked with square pavilions, and finished off with
gigantic gables notched with statues and emblems; the great clock in
the central pavilion, which was striking ten o’clock at night,--an
hour when the very bears are afraid to stir the snow where they lie
cowering, but when man, the most delicate animal of creation, dances
in silk stockings with bare-shouldered women; everything in the savage
grandeur of the situation and the courtly scene filling it with
animation, even to the playful and quaint harmony of the old-fashioned
French music blending unceremoniously with the sharp whistling of
the wind in the long corridors;--all this seemed made to astonish a
traveller, and confuse the ideas of an Italian.
As he gazed upon the immense saloons, and long gallery painted with
mythological divinities, and full of company and noise, Cristiano asked
himself whether these people were not phantoms conjured up in mockery
by the sorcerers of this solitary place. Whence had they come, with
their antiquated dresses, these men in spangled coats, these women with
powdered hair, smiling through clouds of feathers and laces? Would not
this magical chateau disappear at the stroke of a wand? these gay
dancers of the minuet and _chaconne_, would they not fly away in
the shape of white eagles or wild swans?
Cristiano had already noticed, however, the national peculiarities
of the Swedes; the adventurous isolation of their dwellings, the
enormous distances separating them from the little settlements honored
by the name of village; the straggling appearance of the villages
themselves, which sometimes extend over two or three leagues with
only one common centre--the parish church, with its green dome; the
contempt of the nobility for cities, which they abandon entirely to
the trading portion of the community; in a word, their passion for
a lonely country life, united, singularly enough, to a passion for
wild, extravagant expeditions, undertaken for the sake of enjoying
sudden and apparently impossible social gatherings. Cristiano had been
invited to a country merry-making, but he had not foreseen that these
characteristic instincts of the Swedes would be made more active by the
severity of the climate, the length of the nights, and the apparent
difficulty of holding communication with each other. This, however, was
a natural consequence of the necessity that man always feels to conquer
nature, and turn the compensations that she offers him to account. For
two months the baron had given notice for fifty leagues around, that
he would entertain the nobility of the country during the Christmas
festivities. The baron was neither esteemed nor loved by any one; and
yet, for a number of days, his chateau had been full of eager guests,
who, coming from all the four points of the compass, had crossed lakes,
rivers, and mountains, to attend his summons.
Hospitality is proverbial in Dalecarlia, and, like the love of the
people for a country life united to their love of pleasure, it
increases in proportion as they live in remote and inaccessible
regions. Cristiano, who had noticed with what wonderful kindness
strangers are received in Sweden--above all, when they speak the
language--had scarcely thought how difficult it might prove to gain
admission to a soirée where he knew no one, especially since he had
not been invited. He was unpleasantly reminded of his oversight by
seeing a sort of major-domo, wearing a sword, who came up to him in the
hall, and held out his hand with the utmost politeness, after bowing
respectfully.
At first Cristiano was going to shake hands with him kindly, under the
supposition that it was a custom of the country to welcome people in
this way, but he reflected that he might be asking him to produce his
invitation. The major-domo was old, ugly, and pock-marked; his eyes
were downcast, and their hypocritical expression was poorly disguised
by an affectation of gentle apathy. Cristiano put his hand into his
vest pocket, although certain of not finding what he wanted. It is true
that he had been invited to visit Waldemora at the expense of his host,
but not upon the same footing with the gentlemen of the country. He was
preparing, therefore, to play the part of a man who has forgotten his
card of admission, and who is disposed to return in search of it, with
the privilege of not making his appearance again, when he found in his
pocket--that is in M. Goefle’s pocket--a letter signed by the baron,
which proved to be a regular invitation for the honorable M. Goefle and
family, this being the usual formula. As soon as Cristiano saw what it
was, he handed it boldly to the major-domo, who read it at a glance.
“Monsieur is the relative of M. Goefle?” he said, putting the letter
into a basket with a great many others.
“Of course!” replied Cristiano, with assurance.
M. Johan (this was the name of the major-domo) bowed again, and opened
a door upon the main staircase, where the guests stopping at the
chateau were coming and going, as well as the neighbors, who, as they
were perfectly well known to the servants of the house, were allowed
to enter freely. Cristiano’s introduction was confined to this simple
formality, which he would have been very glad to dispense with, for
he did not propose to take any direct part in the entertainment, but
wanted merely to have a general view of it, and enjoy the satisfaction
of seeing the charming Margaret.
He entered, first, the long frescoed gallery that traversed the whole
of the main building, and which was decorated with passable success,
in imitation of the Italian taste, introduced into Sweden by Queen
Christina. The pictures were not good, but they were effective. They
represented hunting scenes; and though an artist could not have failed
to criticise the drawing and action of the dogs, horses, and wild
animals, he could at least have enjoyed the general effect of the
brilliant and lively coloring.
Cristiano walked along this gallery until he came to a handsome saloon,
where they were beginning to dance. His only thought in looking at
the ladies taking part was of Margaret, but his desire to see her was
blended with a secret anxiety. How should he renew the conversation
begun at Stollborg? how substitute his own character? or, at all
events, some new character, no matter what, for the one he had assumed?
This no longer appeared to him so easy as he had imagined it would
prove on engaging in this wild adventure. He was almost glad to find
that Margaret was not in the ball-room; and he took advantage of this
respite--for so he felt it to be--to try and form an idea of the
company moving before him.
Contrary to his expectation, he found nothing to wonder at. At a
first glance, this gathering had none of the peculiarities that he
had anticipated. The age, at this period, belonged to Voltaire,
and consequently to France. Like most of the European sovereigns,
the upper classes in almost every part of Europe had adopted the
language, and apparently the philosophical and literary ideas of
France. But, as taste, logic, and discernment are always confined to
the select few, this infatuation for our ideas gave rise to a great
many inconsistencies. For example, the customs and manners of foreign
nations reproduced much more frequently the corruption and effeminacy
of Versailles than the studious leisure of Ferney. France was the
fashion as well as philosophy. Arts, customs, monuments, good breeding,
deportment, conduct, were all copied, with more or less success, from
the prevailing French fashion. France, with all her contradictory
qualities, good and bad, magnificent and petty, noble and contemptible,
was accepted indiscriminately. It was one of those characteristic
epochs, when progress and decay shake hands before joining in deadly
conflict.
The ball given by Baron Olaus was a mere imitation, a little behind
the times, of a French reunion of the eighteenth century; and yet the
baron hated France, and was intriguing in the interest of Russia. But
in Russia also they imitated France, and spoke the French language;
at court they were extremely barbarous, and even ferocious in their
manners, and yet they were trying to adopt the gallant manners and
intellectual refinement of French civilization. Baron Olaus, therefore,
was borne along by the irresistible current of the age. We shall learn
his history later. Let us return now to Cristiano.
After looking for a while at the dresses of the ladies, which seemed to
him only a few years behind French fashions, and at their faces, which
were generally sweet and intelligent, although they were not all young
and beautiful, he turned his attention to the gentlemen, and tried to
recognize, that is to say to guess among them, the face and figure of
the master of the house. Not far from the spot where he was observing
all that went on without making himself conspicuous, two men were
talking in a low voice, with their backs towards him. Involuntarily
Cristiano followed their conversation, although he felt no personal
interest in it.
These two men were talking French, one with a Russian, and the other
with a Swedish accent. The language of courts and diplomacy seemed to
be necessary to enable them to exchange their ideas.
“Pshaw!” said the Swede, “I am not a cap any more than a _hat_,
although I am thought to be at the head of a certain faction of the
thickest cotton caps in the Diet. I laugh at them all alike, as a
matter of fact; you understand very little about Sweden, if you think
more of one than of the others.”
“I know it,” replied the Russian; “they sell their votes to the highest
bidder.”
“Bid, then! You have no other policy. It is simple, and for you easy,
since yours is a rich government. I am with you heart and soul, without
any question of recompense. With me it is a matter of conviction.”
“I know you are not one of those patriots of the golden age, who are
dreaming about the Scandinavian union, and that one can always come
to an understanding with you. The empress relies upon you, but you
need not hope to avoid her liberality; she accepts no service without
rewarding it magnificently.”
“I am aware of it,” replied the Swede, with a brutality that struck
Cristiano; “I have learned it from experience. Long live the great
Catherine! If she wants to put us in her pocket, let her do it; I
shall be the last one to offer any opposition. If she will only rid
us of all these foolish doctrines about the rights and liberty of the
peasants--which are our curse--she will be doing a good work. The
citizens and noblemen who are their leaders, ought to be arrested,
and have respectively a good taste of the knout, and a good dose of
Siberia administered to them. As for our worthy king, if his bishopric
is restored to him, and, above all, if he gets rid of his wife, he will
have nothing to complain of.”
“Don’t speak so loud,” replied the Russian, “some one may be listening
without seeming to.”
“There is no danger. Every one here pretends to speak French, but there
are not ten persons out of a hundred who can understand it. Besides,
what I have just said, I am in the habit of saying freely. I discovered
long ago that it is the best policy to make your opinions feared. For
my part, I shout upon the housetops that Sweden is done for. Let those
who object prove the contrary.”
Although Cristiano did not belong to any nation, although he knew
nothing either of his country or family, he felt indignant to hear a
Swede so impudently selling his nationality, and he tried to see the
features of the man who could talk so; but his attention was suddenly
diverted by the bustling, awkward approach of an eccentric individual,
who was running about from group to group with the activity of a
man who is taking pains to do the honors of the entertainment. This
individual was dressed in a gaudy red coat, very richly embroidered,
and decorated with the Swedish order of the polar star. His wig was
frizzed magnificently, in the very worst style, and was much too high
for the fashion; while his enormous cuffs of superb lace were more
suggestive of luxury than neatness. In other respects he was old,
ugly, petulant, and whimsical; slightly hump-backed, very lame, and
completely cross-eyed. This last defect gave him, at a first glance,
a wicked expression, and Cristiano concluded that this disagreeable
original must be one and the same person with Margaret’s absurd and
hateful suitor.
To avoid being obliged to introduce himself, and keep up his pretended
relationship with M. Goefle, whose name he had assumed unscrupulously
and without danger in his interview with the major-domo, Cristiano
prudently withdrew. He resolved now to go from room to room until he
had seen the young countess, even if he should be obliged to retire
immediately, without speaking to her. He imagined that the hump-backed
chatelain had looked at him with a good deal of curiosity, but he made
his way skilfully through a group of persons who were talking near a
door, and flattered himself that he had escaped in time.
He walked along for several minutes, not exactly in a crowd (the place
was so large that the guests did not look very numerous), but amid
lively groups, which he did not have leisure to observe attentively.
Fearing to be questioned before he could find Margaret, he passed with
a preoccupied manner and proud expression--which he assumed all the
more because he felt his audacity ready to fail him. And yet, whether
from curiosity about a guest that no one knew, or because of their
admiration for his fine presence and remarkable face, people everywhere
seemed inclined to speak to him, or at least to receive his advances
favorably. But Cristiano was feeling a sort of vertigo that made him
misunderstand the affable glances and good-humored smiles that were
bestowed upon him. He hurried along, therefore, without pretending to
disguise that he was seeking some one; to the persons who made way
before him, he bowed with an easy grace that was natural to him, but
without daring to look at them closely.
At last, on returning to the hunting-gallery, as it was called, he saw
two ladies, in whom he immediately recognized the blond fairy whom he
had seen at Stollborg an hour before, and her governess. Mademoiselle
Potin’s simple dress, timid and refined manner, and a something about
her unmistakably French, left no doubt as to her identity. This
completed the first part of the little romance that Cristiano had
planned. He was at the chateau, he had found no sort of difficulty in
getting admitted, he had avoided the observation and questions of the
master of the house; and, lastly, he had found Margaret under the kind
protection of her confidante. But this was not all. He had still to
approach the young countess, or attract her attention, and find some
means of renewing their acquaintance on a new footing.
The second part of the romance opened in rather an alarming way. Just
as Cristiano, who hoped that a look of Margaret’s would inspire him,
was trying to catch her eye, he heard an unequal step clamping along
behind him, and a shrill, squeaking voice stopped him short with these
words:
“Monsieur! Stranger! stranger! Where are you going so fast?”
The adventurer turned, and found himself face to face with the
deformed, cross-eyed old man, whom he thought he had so successfully
avoided. It was literally face to face, for the lame man, who was
rushing in pursuit of him, could not change his gait quickly enough,
and almost fell into his arms. Cristiano might have fled, but that
would have been to lose everything; he faced it out boldly, and
replied:
“I beg a thousand pardons, baron; you are the very person I was looking
for.”
“Ah, indeed!” said the lame man, holding out his hand with sudden
cordiality; “I thought as much. I remarked your face among all the
others. ‘That is an educated man,’ I said to myself; ‘some learned
traveller, a serious person, a mind, in a word, and certainly I am the
pole which always attracts such magnets,’ Well, here I am, at your
service. It gives me pleasure to devote myself to you. I love young
people when they are studious, and you can ask me all the questions
that you want to have solved.”
There was so much simplicity and good-humor in the old man’s laughing
face and vain talk, that Cristiano in his heart accused Margaret of
doing him injustice. He was an absurd and impossible lover, to be
sure, but he was the best old fellow in the world, and as harmless as
a child. Although one of his eyes did wander about the room in a vague
and aimless sort of a way, the other one looked at his companion with
such a frank and fatherly expression, that it was utterly out of the
question to accuse him of ferocity.
“I am overwhelmed by your goodness, baron,” replied Cristiano,
sufficiently reassured to be somewhat ironical. “I knew that you
were versed in the sciences, and therefore having myself some feeble
notion--”
“You wanted to ask my advice, to have the benefit of my instruction,
perhaps. Ah! my dear friend, method, method in all things. But I won’t
keep you standing among these frivolous people, who are coming and
going; sit down, sit down. No one will disturb us; and, if you feel
inclined, we will talk all night. When science is the theme, I forget
all about fatigue, hunger, and sleep. You are the same, no doubt. The
fact is you must be so, or not meddle with becoming learned!”
“Alas!” thought Cristiano, “I have fallen into the bottom of a well of
science, and am condemned to the mines, I wager, neither more nor less
than an exile of Siberia.”
This discovery was the more cruel, because Margaret had passed on, and
was already at the end of the gallery, chatting with one and another of
the persons who came forward to greet her, and evidently going to the
ball-room, where the baron did not seem at all inclined to join her. He
was seated in one of the semicircular embrasures of the gallery, near a
stove, concealed by some branches of yew and ivy, which, with various
hunting weapons and stuffed heads of wild animals, formed a trophy.
“I see,” said Cristiano, who would have given a great deal to avoid the
proposed scientific conversation, “that you are a universal genius.
Your skill in hunting is everywhere talked of, and I am surprised that
you have time--”
“Why do you take me for a hunter?” replied the old man, with a look
of surprise. “Oh! you suppose that I am guilty of the murder of those
beasts, whose mutilated heads are hanging there, looking at us so sadly
with their poor enamel eyes! You are mistaken; I never hunted in my
life. I have a horror of amusements which increase the ferocity only
too natural to man. It is to the study of the insensible but fruitful
entrails of the globe that I have devoted myself.”
“Excuse me, baron, I thought--”
“There, again, why do you call me baron? I am nothing of the kind;
although it is true that the king ennobled me and conferred on me the
knighthood of the polar star, as a reward for my labors in the mines
of Falun. I was professor of the school of mineralogy in that city, as
of course you know, but I have no right to a title. It is quite enough
for me to have some few privileges which give me a position with the
haughty caste, for which, after all, I don’t care the least in the
world.”
“I have made some mistake,” thought Cristiano. “Oh, then! I shall
have to escape from this scientific gentleman as quickly as possible,
although I seek him out again later.”
But he changed his mind suddenly when he saw Margaret turning back, and
proceeding slowly, in spite of numerous interruptions, towards the
very spot where he was seated. His only thought now was to put himself
on the best terms with the geologist, so that he might introduce
him, if he could possibly bring it about, as a distinguished man. He
dashed into conversation, therefore; and he knew more than enough to
ask intelligent questions. At Falun, in the morning, he had visited
the principal mine, and had taken pleasure in collecting a number
of interesting specimens, to the great disgust of Puffo, who often
thought him crazy. He knew, moreover, that if you listen respectfully
to a learned and vain man, and give him an opportunity to display his
knowledge, he will be pretty sure, as a usual thing, to think you very
intelligent. This is exactly what happened. Without dreaming of asking
his name, his country, or his profession, the professor gave Cristiano
a minute description of the subterranean world. In fact, upon the
surface of the globe, he cared for nothing but himself, his reputation,
and his writings; in a word, for the success of his observations and
discoveries.
At any other time Cristiano would have listened with pleasure, for he
saw plainly that he was talking to a man who was thoroughly master
of his subject, and, for his own part, he felt a deep interest in
all departments of natural science; but Margaret was approaching,
and his thoughts began to wander. The professor noticed his sudden
preoccupation, and looking around with his good eye, cried:
“Ah! there is my fiancée! I am no longer surprised! _Parbleu!_ my
dear friend, I must introduce you to the most amiable person in the
kingdom.”
“It is really he, then!” thought Cristiano, in profound amazement.
“I am talking to Baron Olaus! He seems to be half crazy, but this
is actually the old man to whom this Rose of the North is to be
sacrificed!”
He ceased to doubt, although his surprise was redoubled when he saw
Margaret quicken her step, and heard her say to Mademoiselle Potin:
“Here is my lover at last!”
She held out her hand to the old man, and added, with a sweet and
almost tender smile:
“What are you thinking of, monsieur, to hide yourself in this little
corner, when your fiancée has been looking for you for the last hour?”
“You see,” said the professor to Cristiano, with artless satisfaction,
“she looks for me, she is unhappy when I am not with her! What would
you have, my beauty? It is not my fault that so many people wish to
consult me, and here is a charming young man, a traveller--French, are
you not? or Italian, for you have a very slight foreign accent? Allow
me, Countess Margaret, to introduce my young friend, M. de ----. Excuse
me, monsieur, what is your name?”
“Christian Goefle,” said Cristiano, without hesitation.
At this assumed name, and, above all, at the young man’s voice and
pronunciation, Margaret trembled.
“Are you Monsieur Goefle’s son?” she said, eagerly. “Oh, it is singular
how much you resemble him!”
“There would be nothing singular in such near relatives looking alike,”
replied the professor, “but this gentleman can only be Goefle’s nephew.
Goefle never married, and consequently he has no children, any more
than myself.”
“That would be no reason,” Cristiano whispered in the professor’s ear.
“To be sure; you are right!” replied the latter in the same tone, and
with the most incredible simplicity; “I did not think of that! That
devil of a Goefle! You are his son, then, by a left-handed marriage?”
“Brought up in a foreign country, and just arrived in Sweden,” replied
Cristiano, astonished at the success of his impromptu suggestions.
“Well, well!” replied the professor, who cared very little about other
people’s affairs. “I understand; it is quite plain--you are his nephew.”
He turned to Margaret.
“I know this gentleman perfectly well,” he said; “he is the nephew of
my excellent friend Monsieur Goefle, and I have the honor to present
him to you. You don’t know M. Goefle, but you said this morning that
you would like to become acquainted with him.”
“And so I should,” cried Margaret.
She blushed as she spoke, for at that very moment she met Cristiano’s
eyes, and their vivacity reminded her of those of the false Goefle.
From time to time the young man, with an involuntary movement, had
raised the doctor’s green spectacles, so as to see better, and Margaret
had noticed how brilliantly his eyes flashed between the ear-pieces of
his fur cap.
“But how is it,” resumed the professor, addressing the young girl
without observing her confusion, “that you are not dancing? I thought
you would be the queen of the evening, and that no one would have a
chance to speak to you.”
“Well, my dear lover, you are mistaken. I am not going to dance. I
sprained my foot coming down stairs. Don’t you see how lame I am?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. You want to resemble me, do you? Tell M.
Goefle how it was that I became lame; it was a terrible affair, and
would have been the death of any one else. Yes, monsieur, you see
before you a victim of science.”
Without giving Margaret time to speak, he began to relate, with great
animation, how the rope had broken as he had been descending into a
mine, and how he had fallen with the basket into the bottom of the
abyss, a distance of fifty feet, seven inches, and five lines. For six
hours, fifty-three minutes, and how many seconds we are not prepared
to state, he lay in a swoon, and for two months, four days, and three
hours and a half, had not been able to move. With the same exasperating
accuracy he specified the exact size of the plasters that had been
applied to his various wounds, and the quantity, by drachms, grains,
and scruples, of the different drugs that he had absorbed, whether in
doses taken internally, or by means of external applications rubbed
into his skin.
It was a long story, although the old man spoke rapidly, and did not
repeat himself. His memory was a real scourge; it would not allow him
to omit the least circumstance; and when he was talking of himself, it
never occurred to him that any one could be tired of listening.
Margaret, who knew the story by heart, could not be very attentive, and
talked aside with Mademoiselle Potin for a few moments. The result of
this short conference, which Cristiano did not fail to notice, was soon
evident; good Mademoiselle Potin seized the moment when the professor
had finished his story, and before he could embark in another, which
he was all ready to do, begged him, with hypocritical frankness, to
explain a paragraph in his last work, which she pretended she had not
been able to understand.
Cristiano could not help admiring woman’s natural tact, when he saw how
eagerly the professor entered into a discussion with the governess,
while Margaret’s eyes said clearly to the young man:
“I am dying to speak to you.”
He did not wait to be told twice, but followed her to the other
extremity of the little semicircle, where she seated herself upon a
sofa, while he stood before her in a respectful attitude, outside the
embrasure, in such a way as to shield her from observation.
“Monsieur Christian Goefle,” she said, looking at him again with the
greatest attention, “you are surprisingly like your uncle!”
“I have often been told so, mademoiselle; it seems that it is a
striking likeness.”
“I have never seen him well; indeed, I may say that I have never
seen his face at all; but his accent, his pronunciation--yours are
absolutely the same.”
“I should have supposed that my voice would be rather younger than
his,” replied Cristiano, who had taken pains at Stollborg to speak,
every now and then, like an old man.
“Yes, no doubt,” said the young girl; “there is the difference of age,
although your uncle still has a very fine organ. After all, he cannot
be so very old! He seemed to me much younger than people say. He has
magnificent eyes, and is almost of your height.”
“Just about the same,” said Cristiano, giving an involuntary glance
at the doctor of law’s suit of clothes, and asking himself whether
Margaret was speaking ironically, or questioning him in good faith.
He resolved to bring about an explanation.
“There is another point of resemblance between my uncle and myself,” he
said, “and that is the deep interest that we feel in a person of your
acquaintance, and the desire with which we both are animated to be of
service to her.”
“Ah! ah!” said the young girl, blushing with an air of frankness
that dissipated Cristiano’s anxiety; “I see that your uncle has been
gossiping, and that he has told you about my visit this evening.”
“I don’t know whether you confided any secret to him; in what he
repeated to me there was no mystery at which you need blush.”
“Repeated?--repeated? I believe you were there, in some room or closet
close by; you heard everything.”
“It was so, I confess,” replied Cristiano, who saw that she would
confide in him more quickly if he took advantage of her innocent
suggestion. “I was in my uncle’s bed-room, arranging his papers.
Without his knowledge, and in spite of myself, I heard everything.”
“That is very pleasant, upon my word!” said Margaret, somewhat
confused, and yet pleased without knowing why; “instead of one
confidante it seems that I had two.”
“Your confession seemed to be that of an angel; but I am beginning to
be afraid that it was in reality that of a demon.”
“Thanks for your good opinion. Will you tell me what has caused it?”
“A strange insincerity that I cannot explain. You described Baron Olaus
as a monster, physically and morally--”
“Excuse me, monsieur; you did not understand me. I called him
disagreeable, terrible; I never said that he was ugly.”
“And yet you might have said so truthfully; for to speak plainly, he is
abominably ugly.”
“It is true that his hard and cold expression makes him seem so; but
every one agrees that he has very fine features.”
“The people of this country have a singular standard; but there is no
disputing about tastes! I do not agree with them. He seems to me ugly
and deformed, but comical and good-humored.”
“You are certainly joking, M. Christian Goefle, or we do not understand
each other. God forgive me, you are looking at the person opposite. Is
it possible that you have mistaken him for the Baron de Waldemora?”
“How can I help supposing that the person who calls you his fiancée,
and whom you gayly call your lover, is the baron?”
Margaret burst out laughing.
“Oh! dear me,” she cried, “if you have really imagined that I could
treat Baron Olaus with such friendly familiarity, you must have
thought me very deceitful or very inconsistent; but, thank God, I am
neither the one nor the other. The individual whom I call jestingly my
lover, is a person of no less consequence than the doctor of sciences,
Monsieur Stangstadius, of whom you must have heard your uncle speak.”
“Doctor Stangstadius,” replied Cristiano, feeling very much relieved;
“I must confess that I do not know him, even by name. I have just
arrived from a distant country, where I have always lived.”
“I can understand, then,” replied Margaret, “how it is that you have
not heard of our learned mineralogist. Your opinion of him is very
correct. He is an excellent man, sometimes a little violent, but
never malicious. And then he is simple as a child! There are certain
days when he imagines that my _passion_ for him, as he calls it,
is serious, and when he tries to break the chain, assuring me that
a great man like himself belongs to the universe, and cannot devote
himself to a woman. I have known him for a long time; ever since he
came to the chateau where I was brought up, for the purpose of making
investigations on our estates. He passed several weeks with us, and,
since then, my aunt has allowed him to visit me whenever his business
brings him to our province. He was my only acquaintance here when I
arrived, for you must know that Baron Olaus has made him superintendent
of important mining operations on his domain. But there is my aunt
looking for me! Now I shall have a good scolding, you will see!”
“Do you want to avoid her? Pass between the wall and this hunting
trophy.”
“Potin would have to go too, and we could never persuade M.
Stangstadius to keep our secret. Oh dear! now my aunt will torment me
to death to dance with the baron, but I shall persist in being lame,
though the pain is so slight that I scarcely feel it.”
“It is nothing at all, I hope.”
“Yes, indeed. I was so fortunate as to fall down on the staircase a
little while ago, in my aunt’s presence. My ankle really did hurt me a
little, and I looked dreadfully woe-begone, to prove that I could not
possibly open the court dance with the master of the house. My aunt had
to take my place, and that is why I am here; but the dance is over, and
here she comes!”
In fact, Countess Elfride d’Elveda approached, and Cristiano, who had
taken a seat by Margaret’s side, drew back a little.
The countess was a small woman, fair, fat, lively and resolute. She was
scarcely thirty-five years old, and was very coquettish, although less
from gallantry than a love of intrigue.
She was one of the most ardent _caps_ in Sweden; that is, she
took sides with Russia against France, whose partisans were called
_hats_; and with the nobility and Lutheran clergy against the
king, who naturally sought his support in the other orders of the
state, the citizens and peasants.
She had been pretty, and, what with her wit and rank, was still
sufficiently so to make conquests; but there was something in her
manner, by turns haughty and familiar, that displeased Cristiano. Her
evident duplicity and obstinacy, which he read at a glance, did not
seem to him to promise well for Margaret’s future.
“Well,” she said to the latter, sharply and briefly, “what are you
doing here crouched up against this stove, as if you were frozen? Come,
I want to speak to you!”
“Yes, aunt,” replied Margaret, pretending, with innocent hypocrisy, to
rise with difficulty; “but the fact is that I am suffering very much
with my foot. Being unable to dance, I felt cold in the large saloon.”
“Whom were you talking to?” inquired the countess, looking at
Cristiano, who had gone up to M. Stangstadius.
“The nephew of your friend M. Goefle, whom Monsieur Stangstadius just
presented to me. Shall I introduce him to you, aunt?”
Cristiano, who was not listening to the professor, heard perfectly
well what Margaret said. Resolved to risk everything to continue his
acquaintance with the niece, he came forward of his own accord, and
bowed to the aunt in such a respectful and graceful manner, that she
was struck by his fine appearance. She must have been very much in need
of M. Goefle, for, in spite of Cristiano’s plebeian name, she received
him as courteously as if he had belonged to one of the best families
in the country; and when Monsieur Stangstadius declared that he was a
young man of great merit, became excessively condescending.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said, “and I am angry
with M. Goefle for never speaking to me about a nephew who does him
honor. Are you a devotee of science, like our distinguished friend
Stangstadius? I am glad to hear it. There is no finer career that a
young man can choose. No position is more agreeable than that of the
scientific man, for he is not obliged to make sacrifices to obtain
consideration.”
“I see that it is so in Sweden,” replied Cristiano, “and it is an honor
to this noble country. In Italy, where I was brought up, and even in
France, which was my home for some time, it is very different; there,
learned men are generally poor, and poorly encouraged, when they are
not persecuted by religious fanaticism.”
This reply enraptured the geologist, who was very vain of his country,
and was extremely pleasing to the countess, who despised France.
“You are right,” she said, “and I do not understand why your uncle
should not have had you educated in your own country, where the
position of students is so fortunate and honorable.”
“He wished me to speak the foreign languages with facility,” replied
Cristiano, saying the first thing that occurred to him, “but he need
not have sent me so far upon that account; for you speak French here, I
find, as well as they do in France.”
“We are much obliged to you for your politeness,” said the countess,
“but you are flattering us. We do not speak it as well as you do,
probably, and our Italian is still worse--although every one who is
carefully educated studies it. You must talk Italian with my niece,
and, if she makes mistakes, laugh at her well. But why is M. Goefle so
anxious about the modern languages? Does he intend you for a diplomat?”
“Perhaps, madame; I am not yet fully aware of his intentions.”
“Fie! Fie! Pooh!” cried the geologist.
“Softly, dear professor,” resumed the countess; “there is a great deal
to be said on that side too. All careers are desirable for those who
know how to make them so.”
“If you, madame, will condescend to advise me, I shall esteem it a
privilege to be indebted to you for a valuable suggestion.”
“It will give me pleasure to do so,” she replied, with an affectation
of genial amiability; “and I feel all the more interest in you, because
you have all the qualities to insure success. Come with us to the
dancing-hall. I want my niece to dance at least one minuet; it is not
fatiguing, and she is very perverse to refuse. Do you hear, Margaret?
You must do like every one else!”
“But, aunt,” said Margaret, “every one has not a sprained ankle.”
“In society, my child (I am saying this, Monsieur Goefle, for your
benefit as well), you must never let anything prevent you from being
agreeable or useful. Remember one thing: no one fails to fulfil his
destiny but through his own fault. You must have a will of iron; you
must be superior to cold and heat, hunger and thirst, great sufferings
as well as little pains. The world is not, as young people imagine, a
fairy palace, where you live for enjoyment. It is, on the contrary, a
place of trial, where you will have to conquer all your wants, all your
desires, all your repugnances, with real stoicism;--that is, if you
have an aim in life, and if you have not you are a very weak person.
Ask your _lover_, Margaret, whether he thinks of his little
comforts when he descends into an abyss to seek that which is the aim
of his life. Very well; under the domes of palaces, as well as in the
caverns of mines, there are horrors to be braved. That of dancing with
a slight pain in your ankle is a very little thing in comparison with
what is before you. Come along; get up and come!”
Margaret could not help looking piteously at Cristiano, as much as to
say:
“You see, I shall never be as strong as she is.”
“Shall I offer my arm to Countess Margaret?” said Cristiano to the
imperious aunt; “she is really limping.”
“No, no; it is nothing but caprice! You will see that she will stop
limping soon enough, for it is very awkward. Come, Margaret, give your
arm to M. Stangstadius, and go before us; we want to see which of you
limps the most.”
“What’s that? What’s that?” cried the professor; “I don’t limp at all,
when I’m careful. If I choose I can walk ten times straighter and
faster than the best pedestrians. I only wish you could see me up in
the mountains, proving to the lazy guides that one can do whatever he
wishes!”
As he spoke, M. Stangstadius began to walk very rapidly, but with such
a vigorous elevation of his misshapen person at every alternate step,
that poor Margaret was almost lifted bodily off the floor.
“Give me your arm,” said Countess Elfride to Cristiano; “not that I
care for an escort, or require any assistance, but because I wish to
speak to you.”
Cristiano obeyed, and the countess, who both walked and talked rapidly,
added:
“Your uncle has told you, I suppose, that I wish to marry my niece to
the Baron de Waldemora?”
“Yes, madame, he told me so--this evening.”
“This evening? Has he arrived? I did not know that he was here!”
“He could not find a room at the chateau, no doubt, and he is stopping
at Stollborg.”
“What! In that den of evil spirits? Well! he will be in good company!
But isn’t he coming to the ball?”
“I hope not!” replied Cristiano, thoughtlessly.
“You hope not!”
“I say so because of his gout, which requires perfect repose.”
“Indeed! Has he the gout? What a trial to such a brisk, active man! He
never had it before, and imagined that he was always going to escape.”
“It is quite recent--the attack came on only a few days ago. He sent me
here in his place to present his compliments to you, and receive your
commands, which I will communicate to him as soon as he wakes in the
morning.”
“Very well, then, you can tell him what I say. This is a matter that I
make no sort of mystery about. I have noticed that, when you proclaim
your plans boldly, they are already half accomplished. It is my wish,
therefore, to marry my niece to the baron. You will tell me, perhaps,
that he is not young; for that very reason he has no time to lose in
frustrating the schemes of a dozen heirs whom he detests, and who
are trying in vain to worm their way into his favor. Stay, there are
two of them passing now; the one this way is the Count de Nora, an
inoffensive, good-natured man; the other, the Baron de Lindenwald, is
intelligent, designing, ambitious, and (like all of our nobility at
present) poor. Baron Olaus is a happy exception, because he has no
brothers. Now, what I want you to understand--you and your uncle as
well--is, that the baron looks with a favorable eye upon my niece, and
that she dislikes him. This does not discourage me at all. My niece
is a child, and will submit. Since my resolution is known, no one will
venture to pay court to him, and I will take care of her. Your uncle
must undertake to bring the baron to a determination, and he can do it
easily.”
“If the countess will condescend to give me her instructions--”
“You shall have them in two words: my niece loves the baron!”
“Really?”
“What! You do not understand? An aspirant in diplomacy!”
“Ah! of course;--excuse me, madame--Countess Margaret is reputed to
love the baron, although she detests him, and--”
“The baron must believe that he is loved?”
“And it is Monsieur Goefle who must make him think so?”
“He alone. The baron is very suspicious; I have known him of old; I
could not persuade him. He would suppose that I was interested.”
“Which is not the case,” said Cristiano, smiling.
“Which is the case!--for my niece. Ought I not to be so?”
“Assuredly; but will M. Goefle lend himself to this slight
exaggeration?”
“A lawyer hesitate to embellish the truth a little? Nonsense! When your
dear uncle has a suit to gain he is not so scrupulous!”
“No doubt; but will the baron believe him?”
“He will believe whatever M. Goefle tells him. According to him, he is
the only sincere man alive.”
“The baron, then, wishes to be loved for himself?”
“Yes, he has that fancy.”
“If he loves Countess Margaret he will find it easy to deceive himself.”
“Loves her? Do you suppose any one falls in love when they have reached
his age? That has nothing to do with it. The baron is a man of serious
character, who wishes to marry for the sake of leaving an heir, having
lost his son five years ago. If his wife is pretty, and of good family,
he will be satisfied, and his only request of her will be not to make
him ridiculous. Now he runs no risks with my niece; she is a girl of
good principles, and, whether contented or not, she will never forget
her dignity. You can tell your uncle so, to set his doubts at rest.
Tell him, also, that he can rely upon my gratitude, which, as he knows,
is not to be despised. In my position I can reward slight services with
important ones; and, to begin with, what would he like for you? What
would you like for yourself? Do you want to be attaché at once, and on
a good footing with the Russian embassy? I have only to say the word.
The ambassador is here.”
“God forbid!” said Cristiano, who detested Russia.
He recovered himself quickly, and not wishing to have a misunderstanding
with the countess too soon, finished his sentence thus:
“God forbid that I should ever forget your goodness! I will do all in
my power to deserve it.”
“Very well, begin at once.”
“Shall I go over to Stollborg and wake up my uncle?”
“No; keep near my niece, and talk to her from time to time in the
course of the evening. Take advantage of the opportunity to eulogize
the baron.”
“But I do not know him.”
“You have seen him, that is enough. You can speak as if you had been
struck by his fine manner and noble figure.”
“I should be quite at your service if I had seen him; but--”
“Ah! you have not yet paid your respects to him. Come, then, and I
will introduce you. But no, there is another way. Go and ask Margaret
to point him out to you, and exclaim immediately about the beauty of
his features and person. That will be simple, spontaneous, and worth a
great deal more than a studied eulogy.”
“But why should my opinion, even supposing it to be sincere, have the
slightest influence with your niece?”
“In Sweden, any one who has travelled has more influence than two or
three ordinary mortals. And then, don’t you know that young girls don’t
understand their own natures; that it is vanity that impels them to
choose their lovers, and not sympathy; and that the man, consequently,
whom they admire the most, is always the one who is most admired by
others? Stay! there is my niece seated with some other young ladies,
who certainly would be very glad of a chance to win the baron. That
will do nicely. I will leave her there, and you can join the circle. To
give you an opportunity to fulfil your promise, I will take the baron’s
arm and walk up and down in full view of this solemn assembly. Seize
the right moment.”
“But what will the baron think if he happens to notice me? He will
set me down as an awkward boor, too ignorant either to ask any one to
introduce me to him, or to introduce myself.”
“Don’t trouble yourself; I will make it all right. Besides, the baron
will not see you; he is very short-sighted, and only recognizes people
by their voices. When he hunts he wears glasses, and sees perfectly
well; but he is still too much of an exquisite to use them in society.
It is all settled. Away with you!”
In another moment Cristiano was passing among the groups of beautiful
young ladies who were reposing between the dances. He introduced
himself to one of these little coteries by saying something polite to
Mademoiselle Potin, who was next the wall, and who, poor girl, was
very much gratified at his courtesy. Margaret was delighted to see him
among the young men who surrounded her companions, and the latter soon
learned from her that he was “a young man of great promise, nephew
of the celebrated Goefle, the intimate friend of her aunt.” Some
of them turned up their noses, and thought it not at all the thing
that a plebeian should venture to come and entertain them, among the
young officers of the _indelta_,[3] who generally belonged to
good families; but most of them welcomed him kindly, and thought him
charming.
The fact is, that Cristiano, like a great many adventurers in this
adventurous age, was charming. His style of beauty, also--a singular
coincidence that he had not thought of explaining--was precisely that
best calculated to please in this country. He was tall and well formed,
fair, with a clear red and white complexion, with dark blue eyes and
strongly marked eyebrows, as black as ebony, as were his long curved
lashes and magnificent hair. Moreover, there was a something peculiar
about him that attracted attention: a sort of foreign style, a suavity
in his language and manners telling of the more civilized, or, at
least, the more artistic circles to which he had belonged; a lingering
perfume, as it were, of Italy and France. As soon as it was known that
he had been brought up in Italy, he was overwhelmed with questions,
to which he replied with so much good sense, frankness, and gayety,
that after chatting for a little while, all these young mad-caps were
crazy about him. Cristiano, although by no means a fop, was not at all
surprised. He had been used to pleasing in other days, and when he
resolved to indulge once more, at all costs, in an evening’s gayety, he
knew, that unless his success should be seriously interfered with by
some unexpected revelation, he would appear to better advantage than
most of the young nobles and officers who were present.
In the meanwhile, the little Countess Elfride, who was leaning, or
rather hanging upon the arm of the imposing Baron Olaus, had passed
twice without catching Cristiano’s eye. The third time she coughed
violently, and led the baron up to Margaret, while Cristiano, who
understood, broke away from the bewildering group and fell back, to
observe his host without attracting his attention.
Baron Olaus was a tall, stout man, and, in spite of his age, was still
very handsome, but the deadly pallor and sinister impassibility of his
countenance made it really appalling. His fixed look struck you like
a blast of icy wind that takes the breath away, and the expression
of his face when he smiled was extraordinarily sad and disdainful. As
soon as he spoke to Margaret, Cristiano recognized him from his voice,
which was disagreeably harsh and monotonous, as the very person who had
been selling Sweden so cheap an hour before in his conferences with the
Russian diplomatist. He recognized him also from his lofty stature and
rich dark dress, which he had noticed while listening to him doing the
honors of his country to the enemy.
“Have you fully determined not to dance, mademoiselle?” said the
disagreeable baron to Margaret. “Are you suffering much?”
The countess did not give Margaret time to answer.
“Oh, it is nothing!” she said; “Margaret will dance soon.”
She led the baron away, after looking again in a domineering manner at
Cristiano. Now this is how he obeyed her:
“So that is Baron Olaus de Waldemora?” he said, approaching Margaret
and Mademoiselle Potin, who had hastened to join the young girl at the
approach of her chaperone.
“That is he!” replied Margaret, with a bitter smile. “What do you think
of him?”
“He must have been quite handsome thirty years ago.”
“That, at least,” rejoined Margaret, with a sigh. “Did you like his
face?”
“Yes; I have a great admiration for cheerful faces. There is a certain
gayety about his--”
“Is it not frightful?”
“What was that you said to my uncle?” said Cristiano, sitting
down beside her chair, and lowering his voice; “did he kill his
sister-in-law?”
“It is thought so.”
“For my part, I am sure of it.”
“Indeed! Why?”
“Because he must have looked at her!”
“Oh! Is it not true that he has the evil eye?”
“You exaggerate a little,” said Mademoiselle Potin, who no doubt had
been terrified by some silent threat of Countess Elfride. “He has the
fixed look of people who do not see well.”
“Just so,” said Cristiano; “death is blind. But who gave the baron
the surname of _the Snow Man_? It suits him: he is the living
embodiment of a Spitzbergen winter. He has given me a chill.”
“And did you notice his curious habit?” said Margaret.
“He put his hand to his forehead as if to wipe off the perspiration; do
you mean that?”
“Exactly.”
“The Snow Man wants, perhaps, to make us believe that he is perspiring;
but the simple truth is that he is thawing.”
“You see that I had good cause to be afraid of him. And his black
diamond--did you notice that?”
“Yes, I noticed the hideous black diamond, as he wiped his forehead
with his fleshless hand; which forms such a singular contrast to his
corpulent figure and bloated face.”
“Whom are you talking about so?” said a young Russian lady, who had
risen to spread out her gown over her hoop petticoat; “the Baron de
Waldemora?”
“I was just about to say,” said Cristiano, without being disconcerted,
“that that worthy man has not three months to live.”
“Oh, then,” cried the Russian, laughing, “you must make haste to marry
him, Margaret!”
“Keep your advice for yourself, Olga,” replied the young countess.
“Alas! I have not, like you, an aunt who carries everything before her!
But what makes you think, M. Goefle, that the baron is so ill?”
“From the unhealthy disproportion of his figure, from the yellow white
of his glassy eyes, from the pinched-in look at the base of his hooked
nose, and, above all, from an indefinable feeling that came over me as
soon as I saw him.”
“Indeed! Are you gifted with the second sight, like the people in the
north of this country?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I don’t consider myself a sorcerer;
but I am quite satisfied that some organizations are more or less
sensitive to certain mysterious influences, and I answer for it that
the baron has not long to live.”
“I think,” said Margaret, “that he has been dead already for a long
time; and that it is only by means of some diabolical secret that he
succeeds in passing himself off for a living man.”
“It is true that he looks like a spectre,” said Olga; “but no matter,
he is handsome in spite of his age, and he has a strange power of
fascination. I dreamed about him all last night. I was frightened, and
yet it was a pleasant fear. Can you explain that?”
“It is perfectly simple,” replied Margaret, “the baron is a famous
alchemist; he knows how to make diamonds. Now you told us this morning
that you would sign a compact with the devil for diamonds.”
“You are wicked, Margaret! Suppose I should tell others how you talk
about the baron, and it should come to his ears; you would be vexed
enough, I wager.”
“Do you think so, Monsieur Goefle?” said Margaret to Cristiano.
“No,” he replied. “Why should angels care for diamonds? have they not
the stars?”
Margaret blushed, and turned to the young Russian:
“My dear Olga,” she said, “I implore you tell the baron yourself that I
cannot endure him. You will be doing me a great service. Stay! I will
prove my gratitude. There is the bracelet that you wanted so much! Make
a quarrel between me and the baron, and I will agree to give it to you.”
“Oh, dear me! but what will your aunt say?”
“I will tell her that I have lost it, and you must not wear it while
you are here--no questions will be asked. See, the baron is returning!
They are going to dance another minuet, and he is coming to invite
me; but I shall refuse. My aunt is talking politics with the Russian
ambassador, and will not see me. Stay by me, and he will have to ask
you.”
In fact, the baron came forward, and renewed his invitation with a
sepulchral grace. Margaret trembled in every limb when he held out his
hand to take hers.
“Countess Elveda informs me,” he said, “that you would like to dance
now, and I am going to have another minuet for you.”
Margaret arose, took a step forward, and fell back in her chair.
“I should be glad to obey my aunt,” she said firmly, “but you see,
baron, that I cannot, and I do not suppose that you want to torture me.”
The baron started. He was a man of intelligence, perfectly well-bred,
and excessively suspicious. The countess had not deceived him so
effectually that he was not capable of understanding the slightest
hint, and Margaret’s aversion was too evident to be mistaken. He smiled
bitterly, and replied with sarcastic courtesy:
“You are a thousand times too good, mademoiselle, and I trust you will
believe that I feel your kindness deeply.”
He turned immediately to Olga, invited her, and led her away; while
Margaret snatched the elegant bracelet from her arm, and slipped it
into the ambitious young creature’s hand.
“Monsieur Goefle,” she said to Cristiano, eagerly, although with a
trembling voice, “you have brought me happiness. I am saved!”
“And yet you are pale,” said Cristiano; “you are trembling.”
“I cannot help it! I was so frightened. And I am frightened still, for
I cannot help thinking how angry my aunt will be. But no matter, I
have got rid of the baron. He will revenge himself; he will kill me,
perhaps. But I shall not be his wife; I shall not bear his name. I
shall never touch his blood-stained hand.”
“Be quiet, for heaven’s sake be quiet!” said Mademoiselle Potin, who
was as pale and frightened as herself; “some one may hear you. You have
been very brave, and I congratulate you. But you are really timid, and
all this excitement will make you ill. _Mon Dieu!_ don’t faint, my
dear child. Take your smelling-bottle.”
“Don’t be afraid, my good friend,” replied Margaret, “I have recovered.
Did any one around see what happened? I am afraid to look.”
“No, God be praised! The noise of the orchestra, which had just begun
playing, drowned every other sound, and your young friends were
hurrying away to the dance. We are almost alone in this corner. Don’t
stay here and attract attention. Above all things, avoid having a scene
with your aunt while you are so excited. Come with me to your room;
give me your arm.”
“And shall I not see you again?” said Cristiano, with an emotion that
he could not control.
“Yes, surely,” replied Margaret, “I want to speak to you again. In an
hour you will find us--”
“Where shall I find you?”
“I don’t know. Oh yes! in the supper-room.”
As Margaret withdrew, Cristiano left the hall by another door, and
began to look for the place of rendezvous, so that he might be there
promptly at the appointed hour. Besides, he had been suffering from
hunger ever since he came to the ball, in spite of his interesting
adventures, and the word supper-room aroused his appetite to full
activity.
“If no one is there,” he said to himself, “I shall make terrible inroad
into the provisions of my lord baron.”
While he is proceeding towards this sanctuary, let us see what was
taking place in the drawing-room.
[Footnote 3: A standing army, with an organization peculiar to Sweden,
settled for life in each province.]