THE baron was certainly not fond of dancing, and his corpulence was
by no means calculated to help him cut pigeon-wings; but in the
“court-dances” which were usual at that period it was customary, and
considered the proper thing to do, for even the gravest persons to
take a part. The baron, who had been a widower for a long time, had
given scarcely any entertainments during the life of his lawful heir;
but when it became apparent that his name was in danger of perishing
with him, and that his titles and estates would pass to a branch of
his family which he hated, he had promptly resolved to marry again as
early as possible; and, in choosing a wife, he had made up his mind to
select, not a suitable and agreeable companion, for he felt no need of
such a person, but some healthy young girl from whom he might expect
children. He had accordingly furnished his mansion in a luxurious
style, and had assembled together the ladies of the province, with
the sole design of placing his baronial coronet upon the head of the
prettiest among them who should be so kind as to offer to wear it.
The Countess Elfride had thought herself sure of the prize, but her
plans had failed. The elderly suitor opened his eyes to the fact that
he had been made to look ridiculous, and swore to be revenged both upon
aunt and niece. Moreover, to this oath, which he registered in his mind
with much promptitude, he appended a firm resolve not to be deceived
twice; but, without admitting the interference of any third party, to
offer himself to the first young lady of good family who should receive
him with a sufficient degree of cordiality. This person turned out to
be Olga, as he felt convinced when that young lady proceeded to tell
him, in a confidential whisper, how Margaret had made over to her all
right, title, and interest in his affections. She confided this pretty
story to him with an assumed air of innocence and candor, as if it were
the prattle of a child; and, really, she was a child in many respects,
though none the less a woman, at once possessed and made cunning by
ambition. The baron, who was by no means wanting in penetration, kept
up the joke as if he saw nothing more in it; but, at the end of the
dance, instead of taking Olga to her seat, he offered her his arm, and
led her into the gallery, whose great extent rendered it quite suitable
for confidential interviews. There, taking her burning hands between
his icy cold ones, he said coldly:
“Olga, you are young and beautiful, but you are poor, and of too high
rank to marry a handsome young fellow of low birth. It rests with you
to turn your jest into earnest. I offer you my title and a brilliant
position. Answer me seriously and without delay, or otherwise dismiss
this subject forever from your mind.”
Olga was really young, beautiful, poor, vain, and ambitious. She took
time by the forelock, and accepted at once.
“Very good,” observed Olaus, kissing her hand, “I thank you. Excuse
me if I say not a word further. I should make myself ridiculous
if I should undertake to talk to you about love, for you would
imagine that I think myself a person who can be loved. We will be
married--that is settled; and we both of us have decisive reasons for
this resolution--that is certain. In the meanwhile, in case you really
desire this marriage, I must request you to keep it an absolute secret
for some days, above all from the Countess Margaret and her aunt. Can
you promise me this? Remember, any indiscretion would break off our
engagement.”
Olga had too much at stake not to give the required promise in good
faith; and the baron handed her back to the great drawing-room.
Their absence had been so brief, that, even if observed, no particular
conclusion could have been drawn from it. Yet the Countess d’Elveda
felt uneasy at it, and went to find out what had become of her niece.
“Do not annoy yourself,” remarked Olga, “she was here this very moment.”
“She is hiding herself--she is still obstinate about dancing.”
“By no means,” said the baron, “she had consented to dance. It was I
who declined to take advantage of her kindness.”
And offering his arm to the countess, he walked away with her,
explaining, as they went, that he did not wish any one to be
constrained to love him; that he was old enough to pay his addresses
for himself, and that he begged her not to interpose further in the
matter, lest she should be the means of his losing all hope, and even
of his giving up his design of marrying.
The countess consoled herself for this reprimand, by the recollection
that it was the first time the baron had shown any decided purpose of
seeking her niece’s hand. Intriguing and perfidious as she was, she was
this time the dupe of the baron, whose only object was to deceive her
as she had deceived him.
“It is astonishing,” said Cristiano to himself, as he set out to find
the supper-room, “to watch these intriguers in high life, to see how
foolish they are in their malignity, and how easily they are deceived!
But that must necessarily be the case in matters of that kind, when one
lays down the principle, to begin with, of absolute contempt for the
human species. We cannot despise others without despising ourselves.
He who does not think well of the work he is doing is made impotent by
that very fact. It was a superb piece of comedy for that aunt to tell
me so calmly, ‘have a niece to immolate; help me about it; be quick,
and I will pay you by giving you a position as head valet in a good
family!’”
Cristiano, however, put aside his philosophic reflections as he
entered the room he was looking after, which he discovered by a really
delicious odor of venison. It was a very handsome circular room,
laid with small movable tables, with a view of temporarily assuaging
impatient appetites while waiting for the grand supper. As everybody
had done great honor to the baron’s table already at nine o’clock, the
room was empty, except for one servant, who was fast asleep, and whom
Cristiano took pains not to waken, lest he should be considered greedy
and ill-mannered. Without stopping to select, he seized a plate of
stuffed veal à la Française; but just as he made a cut into it with the
vermilion-handled knife, the servant, startled out of his sleep, sprang
up as if he had been moved by springs, and M. Stangstadius bustled
in, rattling the glasses and crockery with the jar which his uneven,
jerking step communicated to the floor.
“_Parbleu!_ It’s you, is it?” he called out, on seeing Cristiano.
“Glad to find you here! I don’t like to eat alone, and we can talk
over serious matters while we satisfy the blind appetites of these poor
human machines of ours. Pooh! you don’t mean to eat standing? Oh no!
It’s extremely unfavorable to the digestion, and you don’t taste what
you eat at all. Here, Karl, draw out that table--the largest. Very
good. Now then, give us some of the best there is. How? Side-dishes?
No, not yet. Something more solid; some good slices of that sirloin.
After that you can bring the best cut out of that bear’s ham. It’s a
Norway ham, I hope; they are the best smoked. Come, Karl, some wine!
Give us some Madeira and Bordeaux, and you may bring a few bottles
of champagne, too, for this young man; he’s likely to be fond of it.
Very well, Karl. That’ll do, my boy; but don’t go, we shall want some
dessert very shortly.”
While giving these orders, M. Stangstadius installed himself with his
back to the stove, and applied himself to eating and drinking after so
marvellous a fashion, that Cristiano cast away all shame, and began
devouring with the whole force of his thirty-two teeth. As for the man
of science, who had not more than a dozen, he manœuvred them so ably
that he was not a whit behindhand, while all the while he continued
talking and gesticulating with wonderful energy. Cristiano, astonished,
inwardly compared him to some fantastic monster, half crocodile and
half ape; and asked himself where could be the seat of this terrible
vitality in a body so misshapen, apparently so feeble, and with
diverging eyes incessantly moving, but with no expression whatever.
The conversation of the geologist soon did something to help solve the
problem. The worthy gentleman had never loved a human being, nor even
so much as a dog. Everything was perfectly indifferent to him beyond
the circle of ideas in which he lived, so to speak, on himself; taking
his own pleasure, admiring himself, flattering himself, and, in default
of better material, finding nourishment in the perfumes of his own
self-praise.
Cristiano felicitated him upon his magnificent health.
“Do you see, my dear fellow,” he replied, “when God made me he came to
a full stop. I swear to you he could not have produced such another! I
know nothing of the sufferings that others feel. To begin with, I have
never known the vulgar and despicable infirmity of love. I never wasted
one minute in my life in forgetting myself for one of those pretty
dolls that you make idols of. A woman may be eighty or eighteen--it’s
exactly the same to me. When I am hungry, if I am in a hovel, I eat
whatever I can find, and if I find nothing, I occupy myself in thinking
over my works; and I wait, without any uneasiness. If I am at a good
table, I eat everything there is on it, and without feeling any
inconvenience. I feel neither cold nor heat. My head is always burning,
it is true; but it is with a sublime fire that does not consume the
mechanism, but, on the contrary, nourishes and repairs it. I know
neither hate nor envy. I am perfectly aware that no one knows more
than I; and as to those who are jealous of me--there are a vast many
of them--I crush them like the worms of the dust. They never recover
after a criticism from me. In short, I am made of steel, gold, and
diamond; I defy the entrails of the whole earth to supply a material
more impassible or more precious than that of which I am made.”
At this comprehensive and frank declaration Cristiano could not help
an immoderate explosion of laughter, which, however, did not at all
disconcert or offend the Chevalier of the Polar Star. On the contrary,
he took this hilarity to be a joyous homage to his own universal
superiority; so that Cristiano perceived that his companion was, in
some sense, a monomaniac of a curious species, whose infirmity might
be defined as lunacy from excess of self-conceit. Cristiano questioned
him in vain about such persons as interested him. As to the Baron de
Waldemora, M. Stangstadius would only condescend to say that he had
some aspirations towards science, but that, on the whole, he was simply
an idiot. Margaret he set down as stupid for not accepting the first
rich match that came along. He did, it is true, spare her a little,
admitting that she must be more amiable than the rest of them, since
she was in love with him. This he thought a proof of good sense, but
he found it impossible to profit by this disposition of hers, since
science was his wife and mistress at the same time.
“Really, Mr. Professor,” said Cristiano, “you seem to be admirably
consistent in this wonderful logical system of yours.”
“Ah! I’ll answer for that,” replied M. Stangstadius; “I’m a different
sort of man from your Baron Olaus, whom fools admire for his strength
of will and coolness!”
“_My_ baron? I assure you that I want nothing to do with him.”
“For my part I speak neither well nor ill of him,” returned the
professor; “all men are poor creatures, more or less; but does he not
pretend to be a free-thinker, and to have never loved?”
“Could he have ever really loved any one? If he could, his face is
extremely deceptive.”
“I don’t know but he may have loved his wife, while she lived. She was
a malignant she-devil.”
“Perhaps, then, he admired her.”
“I’m sure I don’t know. She managed him, however, as she chose; and
after she was dead, he could not endure to be without her, and so
he came to engage me to calcine and crystallize her ladyship, the
baroness.”
“Ah! then the famous black diamond is your work?”
“You have seen it, then! Is it not a capital result of experiment!
The lapidary who cut it was in perfect despair at not being able to
discover whether it was the work of nature or of art. But I must tell
you the method I pursued, and how I secured its transparency. I took
_my body_ and wrapped it in asbestos cloth, after the manner of
the ancients, and placed it over an extremely hot fire of wood, coal,
and bitumen, the whole well sprinkled with naphtha. When _my body_
was thoroughly reduced--”
Cristiano, finding himself condemned to undergo the history of the
reduction and vitrification of the baroness, set about eating as fast
as he could, and tried not to hear; but he had perfectly stuffed
himself before the professor had ended his demonstration. This meeting
was a sad disappointment to Cristiano, who had hoped for an interview
with only Margaret and her governess. And he became more dissatisfied
still, as a group of young officers of the _indelta_ invaded the
hall.
These northern stomachs were far from being satisfied with the
refreshments and cooling beverages provided in the ball-room, and so
they came hither to warm their blood a little with good Spanish and
French wine; and Cristiano observed with interest something peculiar in
the way in which these men of the north drank their wine, and which he
had never been able to notice to so good advantage. He began, moreover,
to see something a little rude in their manners, and a rather rougher
style of gayety than he found himself quite able to join in. But to
make amends, the free-heartedness and cordiality of the young men were
such as he entirely sympathized with. They all greeted him with eager
kindness, and insisted on his drinking with them, until he found his
head beginning to feel the liquor. He therefore stopped, fearing to
go too far, but admiring the ease with which these robust sons of the
mountains went straight on drinking the heady wine, without apparently
feeling it at all.
As soon as he could disengage himself from their friendly challenges,
he took up a position near the door, in order to go out whenever he
should perceive Margaret in the gallery outside. He supposed that when
she saw the room full of young men drinking she would not go in. She
however did go in, notwithstanding, and in a few moments was followed
by other young ladies and their cavaliers, who took seats at different
tables, those already sitting there hastening to give them places,
and to wait upon them. And now the mirth began to be louder and more
enthusiastic. They forgot to imitate Versailles; they talked Swedish,
and even Dalecarlian: the voices grew loud; the young ladies drank
champagne without making any faces over it, and even took Cyprus wine
and port, without any fear of the consequences. There were present
brothers and sisters, betrothed lovers, and cousins. It was like
one numerous family; and the sexes mingled with a freedom which was
innocent, warm-hearted, perhaps a little inelegant, but, on the whole,
touching, from its chastity and simplicity.
“What good souls they are!” thought Cristiano. “What the devil is
the reason that as soon as they begin to think about themselves they
attitudinize as Russians or French, when they appear to so much better
advantage in their own natural character?”
The peculiar charm of the little Countess Margaret was exactly that
she was herself in whatever circumstances. Mademoiselle Potin had
certainly formed her most judiciously, in thus preserving her natural
and spontaneous. And what Cristiano found especially agreeable in her
was, that she declined wine. Cristiano had some prejudices.
While the rest were all chattering and laughing around Stangstadius,--
whose table, always in the same place, and always copiously served,
became the centre and target of witticisms, by which he was not at
all disconcerted,--Margaret found an opportunity of telling Cristiano
in a confidential manner, which, as may be imagined, did not displease
him, that her aunt had quite changed her demeanor to her, and, instead
of finding fault, had become very good-natured.
“It must be,” she said, “that the baron has not mentioned my
discourtesy; or else she knows of it, but means to try a different way
to bring me into her plans. At any rate, I have a breathing-time. The
baron is not attentive to me any more; and even if I am to be scolded
again by my aunt to-morrow, or sent back for penance to my solitude at
Dalby, I mean to enjoy myself to-night, and forget all my vexations.
Yes, I intend to dance as gayly as I can; for, if you will believe it,
Monsieur Goefle, this is the first ball I ever attended in my life;
the first time I ever danced anywhere, except in my own room, with my
good Potin. I am positively dying to try my little accomplishments in
public; and I am frightened to death, at the same time, for fear of
being awkward, and getting out in the figures of the French quadrille.
I must find some obliging partner who will help me through, and look
after me a little, so as to tell me all my mistakes in a charitable
way.”
“I believe it will not be difficult to find him,” replied Cristiano;
“and if you will venture to trust yourself to me, I guarantee that you
shall dance as if you were at your hundredth ball.”
“Well, then, agreed. I accept, with thanks. Let us wait till twelve
o’clock. We will make up a little separate ball all by ourselves, with
these ladies and gentlemen here, at one end of the gallery. Then,
perhaps, my aunt, who is dancing in the grand saloon with all the great
people, will not see how suddenly my sprain has got well.”
Cristiano now began a brisk conversation with the young lady; and,
being a little stimulated by the champagne, his gayety was gradually
taking on a sentimental complexion, when a name, pronounced aloud close
to him, made him start and turn around suddenly.
“Christian Waldo!” said a young officer, with an open and good-natured
face; “who has seen him? where is he?”
“To be sure!” cried Cristiano, jumping up. “Where is Christian Waldo?
Who has seen him?”
“Nobody,” answered some one from another table. “Who has ever seen
Christian Waldo’s face, and who will ever see it?”
“You have never seen it, have you, Monsieur Goefle?” asked Margaret of
Cristiano. “You do not know him?”
“No. But who is Christian Waldo, and how is it that it is impossible to
see his face?”
“You must have heard him spoken of though, for his name seemed to
strike you.”
“Yes, because I remember having heard it at Stockholm; but I did not
pay much attention to it, and I do not even remember--”
“Come, major,” said a young lieutenant, “since you know this Waldo,
tell us who he is, and what he does. I do not know anything about him.”
“Major Larrson knows a great deal if he can do that,” said Margaret.
“For my part, I have heard so many different things said about
Christian Waldo, that I promise beforehand not to believe a word of
anything that is going to be told.”
“But,” replied the major, “I am ready to make oath, upon my honor, that
I say nothing about him except what I absolutely know. Christian Waldo
is an Italian comedian, who travels about from one town to another,
amusing people by his good-natured wit and inexhaustible gayety. His
exhibition consists--”
“We know that,” interrupted Margaret, “and we know that he gives his
representations sometimes in drawing-rooms and sometimes in taverns;
to-day in a castle, and to-morrow in a hovel; and that he makes the
rich pay high prices, while he often exhibits to the poor for nothing.”
“An absurd original enough,” said Cristiano; “a kind of mountebank.”
“Mountebank or not, he is an extraordinary man,” replied the major,
“and a man of genuine nobility of character, too, which is more! Last
month, at Stockholm, I myself saw him fight three furious drunken
sailors, one of whom had been cruelly abusing a poor cabin-boy, when
Christian Waldo, indignant at the cowardly outrage, rescued his victim.
On another occasion, this Christian threw himself into the midst of a
fire to save an old woman; and every day he gave away almost all he
received to persons who excited his pity. Indeed, it was said that
the people of the suburbs were so enthusiastic about him, that he
had to leave secretly in order to avoid being carried in a triumphal
procession.”
“And also,” observed Margaret, “to avoid being obliged to remove his
mask; for the authorities began to feel uneasy about an incognito so
very popular, and they fancied he might be some Russian agent who was
preparing the ground in this way, so that when the time came he could
excite a sedition.”
“Do you believe,” said Cristiano, “that this funny fellow--for it
appears that he is a funny fellow--is a Russian spy?”
“I? No, I don’t believe it,” replied Margaret. “I am not one of those
people who prefer to think that goodness and charity cover wicked
designs.”
“But his mask,” said one of the young ladies, who had been eagerly
listening to the officers; “why does he always wear a black mask when
he enters his theatre and leaves it? Is it to represent the Italian
harlequin?”
“No, for he does not appear himself in the representation which he
exhibits to the public. There is some reason, which no person knows.”
“Perhaps,” observed Cristiano, gravely, “it is to hide a leprosy, or
something of the kind.”
“Some say his nose is cut off,” remarked one of the young people.
“And others, again,” added a third, “say that he is the handsomest
young fellow in the world; and that he has permitted himself to be
seen in the faubourg, and by some persons with whom he has formed a
friendship.”
“It would appear,” resumed the major, “that he does not wear his mask
at all within his own establishment; but reports are very conflicting
about his face. A young boatwoman, who was almost ill with curiosity,
managed to induce him to remove the mask, and fell quite ill with
fright at seeing a death’s head.”
“Certainly this Waldo must be the devil himself,” said Margaret, “if
he can appear as a handsome young man or a frightful spectre. Young
ladies, don’t you all want to see him?”
“Do you, Margaret?”
“Let’s all confess that we are wild to see him, and that at the same
time we are terribly afraid!”
“They say he is coming here, do they not?” asked one of the young girls.
“He is here now, according to the latest accounts,” answered the major.
“What, really?” cried Margaret; “has he come already? Shall we see him?
Is he in the ball-room now?”
“Oh,” said Cristiano, “that would be rather a difficult matter.”
“Difficult? Why?”
“Because a mountebank would not venture to present himself in the
character of an invited guest, among such a company as this.”
“Bah!” said the major; “it seems the fellow is not afraid to do
anything. His mask, his exhibition, and his name, belong together;
but it is asserted, and it seems quite probable, that, under another
name, and without any mask, he comes and goes as he likes, and goes all
over Stockholm; and that, in the public promenades and most frequented
taverns, those who talk about him can never be certain that he is not
just at their elbow, or perhaps the very person they are speaking to.”
“But then,” said Cristiano, “how do we know that he is not even in this
very room?”
“Oh no!” answered Margaret, though not until she had glanced all round
the room, “all of us who are here know each other.”
“But I? No one knows me? Perhaps I am Christian Waldo!”
“Then where is your death’s head?” said one of the young girls,
laughing. “Without either mask or death’s head, you are only an
apocryphal Waldo. And by the way, gentlemen, can any one tell us how it
is known that he has arrived?”
“I can tell you,” replied the major, “how I found it out myself. It
seems that an unknown person applied for accommodations here, and, the
house being full, was directed to the farm-house. He gave his name,
and showed the letter in which Johan, the major-domo, by order of his
master, the baron, invited him hither for the amusement of the guests
here assembled. I don’t know whether they have accommodated him in some
corner of the chateau or elsewhere; but it is certain that he has come.”
“Who told you so?”
“The major-domo himself.”
“And he wore his mask?”
“He wore his mask.”
“And is he tall or fat? well formed or bandy?”
“I did not ask any of those questions; for as I saw him with my own
eyes at Stockholm--masked, it is true--I know him to be tall, well
made, and as lithe as a deer.”
“Probably he may be some ex-rope-dancer,” suggested Cristiano, who
appeared to take no more interest in the conversation than politeness
required.
“Oh no!” said Margaret; “he has received a capital education. Everybody
is struck by the style and wit of his comedies.”
“But how do you know that they are his own?”
“People familiar with all the ancient and modern literatures,
assert that nothing in them is stolen; and these little comedies of
his--sometimes sentimental, it is said, also--have been a real literary
event at Stockholm.”
“Will he exhibit to-morrow, do you think?” was asked on every side.
“It is to be presumed,” replied the major, “but if these young ladies
are desirous to know, I shall be very happy to undertake to find him
out and inquire.”
“At midnight?” said Cristiano, looking at the clock. “The poor devil is
asleep. I believe the Countess Margaret had a more important plan to
suggest to the company.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Margaret. “I want to propose a little ball, all to
ourselves. I am a new comer here--a perfect savage, I confess; you have
only met me within these two or three days; but every one has been so
kind and good to me, that I am not afraid to confess--what M. Goefle
will be so good as to tell you--”
“This is it,” said Cristiano. “The Countess Margaret, as she herself
just told you, is a perfect savage. She knows nothing in the world,
not even how to dance; she is as awkward as possible, and limps at
least as much as our illustrious master Stangstadius. Besides, she
is clumsy, absent-minded, short-sighted. In fact, it would require a
most Christian dose of charity to reconcile one’s self to the idea of
dancing with her; for--”
“Enough! enough!” cried Margaret, laughing. “You have done me the honor
to describe me with a great deal of humility. Please to accept my
thanks, however; for they will all expect something so frightful now,
that if I succeed only tolerably well everybody will be enchanted with
me. The end of the matter is that I wish to make my first appearance
before this small party; and that--if you all say so--we will go and
dance in the gallery. The music in the grand saloon will be abundantly
loud enough for us to dance by.”
Several of the young men hastened towards Margaret, to ask for her
hand. She thanked them, but said that M. Christian Goefle had already
devoted himself to be the victim.
“It is quite true, gentlemen,” said Cristiano, gayly, as his gloved
hand received the little hand of Margaret; “all please to pity me, and
so lead on to the torture.”
Places were taken in an instant, and the quadrille was formed. Margaret
begged not to be one of the first four.
“You are curiously agitated,” said Cristiano to her.
“I am,” she replied; “my heart beats as if I were a bird launched out
of the nest for the first time, and not quite sure that it has wings at
all.”
“The first quadrille,” remarked the adventurer, “is, I see, an
important event in the life of a young lady. In a year from now, when
you have attended a hundred balls or so, do you suppose you will
remember at all the name and face of the humble individual who enjoys
the happiness and glory of directing your first dance?”
“Yes, certainly, Monsieur Goefle; the recollection will always be
joined to that of the greatest emotions of my life: my fear of the
baron, and my joy at being delivered from him, by an effort of courage
that I should not have believed myself capable of, and with which I was
certainly inspired by your uncle and yourself.”
“But do you know,” said Cristiano, “I am not at all certain of your
aversion for the baron?”
“Why not?”
“You are assuredly much more frightened about dancing in public than
you were about dancing with him.”
“Yet I did not dance with him, and I am going to dance with you!”
Cristiano involuntarily pressed Margaret’s small fingers; but she
thought this merely an intimation that it was time for her to take her
place, and, all rosy with pleasure and bashfulness, she stepped forward
with him into the joyous circle, where she very quickly found herself
entirely at her ease, as her grace and lightness entitled her to be.
“Well, I believe I am not afraid any more,” she said, as they returned
to their place, while the other four began the first figure.
“You are a great deal too courageous,” replied Cristiano; “I hoped I
should have been of some service, but you have learned so fast how to
use your wings, that now you will be flying off with the first comer.”
“It will never be with the baron, though! But tell me why it was that
you thought I exaggerated my dislike for him?”
“_Mon Dieu!_ I see that you are passionately fond of balls--that
is, of entertainments and luxury; and every passion is followed by
certain consequences. Now, if pleasure is the object, wealth is the
means of securing it.”
“What? Am I so silly and so homely that I shall never make a rich
marriage unless with an old man?”
“Then you admit that you will not marry any one but a rich man?”
“If I should say yes, what would you think of me?”
“I should not think ill of you.”
“I know; I should be doing just as so many others do; and you would not
think well of me either.”
This rather delicate discussion was resumed at the third pause of the
quartette to which our two young friends belonged. Margaret seemed to
want to test Cristiano’s sincerity.
“Confess, now,” she said, “that you despise girls who marry for riches;
like Olga, for instance, to whom the baron looks so handsome through
the facets of the great diamonds that she dreams about.”
“I despise nothing,” replied the adventurer; “I am naturally tolerant,
or else the facets of what virtue I have are dulled by friction with
the world. I am enthusiastic for what is superior to the average; and I
feel a philosophical indifference to whatever is adapted to the vulgar
generality of people.”
“Enthusiastic, do you say? Is not enthusiasm a high price to pay for
a thing so natural as disinterestedness? I shall not demand so much
of you, Monsieur Goefle; I shall only ask your esteem. I hope you
will believe that if I were free to choose, I would consult my heart
alone, and not my interest. Even if I could never have any more lace
to my sleeves, or satin bows to my dress--even if I could never dance
any more in the light of a thousand candles, to the sound of thirty
violins, hautboys, and double-basses--I feel that I am capable of
making even so immense a sacrifice as that, for the sake of preserving
my freedom of opinion and the approbation of my conscience.”
Margaret spoke with enthusiasm. Excited by the dancing, she said just
what was in her heart: all the generosity and romance of her nature
shone in her brilliant eyes; there was a sort of electrical life and
inspiration in her radiant smile; in her attitude, like that of a bird
eager to dart upwards again to the clouds; in her lovely fair hair,
whose long curls wreathed over her lily-white shoulders as if they
were alive; in the heart-felt tone of her voice--in short, in the
whole of her charming little person. Cristiano was altogether dazzled,
and, without being entirely conscious of what he was saying, he asked
Margaret, as if he were dreaming, this strange question:
“You will never permit yourself to love any one not of your own
rank, I know. But suppose that, in spite of yourself, you should
find your affections drawn towards some poor devil, a person without
a name, without a penny--Christian Waldo, for instance--would you
not be extremely mortified, and consider it your duty to stifle your
inclinations?”
“Christian Waldo!” said Margaret. “Why Christian Waldo? You choose a
very strange person as an example!”
“Extremely so, and I do it on purpose. When one proceeds by an
antithesis--But come; this is what I mean. Suppose that this Christian
Waldo--whom I do not know at all--really possesses the courage, the
intelligence, the generosity that have just been attributed to him
here; and in addition to his other endowments, the poverty which must
be the faithful attendant of his wanderings; and a name which, I
presume, he does not claim in virtue of any old parchments.”
“And with his death’s head--”
“No, without his death’s head. Well, suppose that you had no choice of
marriage, except between him and the Baron de Waldemora--”
“My choice would be very easily made. I would not marry at all!”
“Unless, of course, it should turn out that Christian’s mask concealed
a young and handsome prince, who was obliged to conceal himself for
reasons of state?”
“A fine idea that is!” said Margaret; “another Czarewitch Ivan escaped
out of his prison, or another Philip III. escaped from his assassins!”
“In that case, apocryphal or not, he would find grace in your eyes.”
“What do you want me to say? An Italian buffoon is really not a good
standard of comparison, if you are in earnest.”
“Too true,” replied Cristiano, “and here is the finale; let us tread it
lightly, for it is the handful of earth cast upon the romance entitled
‘The First Quadrille’!”
But it was not ordained that this quadrille should end according
to choregraphic laws. M. Stangstadius, having at last finished the
copious repast, which he called a mere snack between the supper and the
after-supper, just at this moment came out from the refreshment-room.
Absorbed in some lofty conception awakened in his mind by the agreeable
effort of prosperous digestion, and coming upon the young dancers in
his progress, he marched unceremoniously straight through them, running
against the cavaliers who were just exhibiting their graces in the
“forward two,” and treading on the little feet of the ladies as if
they had been so many pebbles. His extravagant limping rendered his
gait so ridiculous that every one burst out laughing. The dance was
quite broken up; and the young couples, taking hold of each other’s
hands, executed a rapid and noisy _rondo_ about the chevalier of
the polar star, who, not wishing to be behind the others in grace,
undertook to execute a hopping movement in the opposite direction, to
the immense amusement of the company. But, sad to tell, the laughing
and singing became so noisy as to attract attention in the grand saloon.
The orchestra had come to a pause in the music, but the young people
did not notice it, and kept on singing and dancing around Stangstadius,
who compared himself to Saturn in the middle of his ring.
Countess Elfride hastened to the spot, and, beholding the sudden cure
of her niece, fell into a rage, which this time she could not restrain.
“My dear Margaret,” she said, shortly, in a sharp tone, “you are
exceedingly imprudent. You forget your sprain; it is extremely
dangerous to go on in such a way. I have just seen the baron’s
physician, and he prescribes entire quiet to-night. Have the goodness
to retire at once with your governess. She will assist you to go to
bed, and put on some compresses. Believe me, you had best do so.”