“Obey me!”
Margaret, who had been rosy with delight, turned quite pale, and,
whether from anger or mortification, could not restrain two great tears
which glittered a moment on her long eye-lashes, and rolled down her
cheeks. The Countess Elfride snatched her hand and carried her off,
saying, in an under-tone:
“I think you have taken an oath to do nothing to-night but make a fool
of yourself. Now you must pay for it. I excused you for not dancing
with our entertainer, for he really believes you were in pain; but
after that, to dance with another person is to offer the baron an
unheard-of, deliberate insult, and I will not allow you to keep up
such conduct until he has perceived it.”
Cristiano followed along behind Margaret, trying to think of some
means of disarming or diverting the wrath of her aunt, if he should
perceive any favorable moment for addressing her, when he saw the baron
approaching, and paused, leaning against the pedestal of a statue, to
see what would take place among the three.
“What!” said the baron, “you are taking away your niece? It is too
early. I thought she was just beginning to enjoy herself in my house.
Permit me to beseech your indulgence for her; and since she has
been dancing--as I am told--may I now beg her to dance with me? She
certainly cannot refuse me now, and I am sure she will consent with
pleasure.”
“If you insist upon it, baron, I consent,” said the countess.
“Come, Margaret, thank the baron, and go with him. Do you not see that
he is offering you his arm for the polonaise?”
Margaret seemed to hesitate; her eyes met those of Cristiano, who did
not know which feeling predominated--his desire to have her remain,
or his fear that she would yield. Perhaps the last sentiment was most
distinctly expressed in his looks, for Margaret answered steadily that
she was engaged.
“To whom, pray?” cried the countess.
“Yes; to whom?” repeated the baron, with a singular inflection in
his voice, and with a calmness that, Margaret thought, had something
ominous in it.
She looked down, and was silent; for she did not understand what was
passing in the mind of her persecutor, from whom she had thought
herself quite safe.
The baron’s only object was to torment her and compromise her. He saw
perfectly well her aversion for him, and cordially reciprocated it.
Coldly hard-hearted and revengeful, he affected to jest; but said,
speaking loud enough to be heard by many inquisitive ears:
“Where is the happy mortal with whom I must dispute you? for I
certainly will do it. I have the right.”
“You have the right?” exclaimed Margaret, amazed and indignant; “you,
baron?”
“Yes, I,” he answered, with cold, cruel irony; “you know very well I
have. Come, where is this rival who is going to carry you off to dance
from under my very beard?”
“Here!” exclaimed Cristiano, losing his self-control, and advancing
upon the baron in a threatening manner, while all the spectators,
stupefied into silence, looked on with curiosity and amazement.
It was very well known that the baron, in spite of his sluggish and
blasé manner, was extremely irascible, and indomitably proud. Every one
expected a violent scene; and, in fact, a greenish pallor overspread
instantaneously the baron’s face, and he opened and shut his large
and short-sighted eyes, as if to emit a flash of lightning for the
annihilation of the audacious unknown who defied him so openly. But
instantly the blood rushed back to his forehead, on which one large,
engorged vein rose like a ridge, while his lips became more livid than
the rest of his face. An indistinct cry escaped him, his arms extended
convulsively, and he fell forward, exclaiming:
“There it is! There it is!”
He would have fallen upon the floor, had not twenty arms interposed.
He had fainted; and they carried him to a window, and unceremoniously
broke the panes to give him fresh air. Olga made her way through the
crowd to bear him assistance. Margaret disappeared as if her aunt had
whisked her off by conjuration; and Cristiano was rapidly led away by
Major Osmund Larrson, who had taken a great liking to him.
“Come along with me,” said the good-natured young fellow; “I must speak
with you.”
In a few moments Cristiano and Osmund were alone in an antique room on
the ground-floor, warmed by an immense fire-place.
“We can smoke here,” said the major. “Here’s a rack, well filled; suit
yourself with a pipe, and here’s the tobacco. That beer on the table is
the best in the country, and here’s some capital old Dantzic brandy.
My comrades will be down in a moment to tell us the latest news of the
affair.”
“My dear major,” said Cristiano, “I see you think me extremely angry,
but you are mistaken. Let the baron get over his attack; I will smoke
here with you until he is ready for an explanation.”
“But for what purpose? to fight a duel?” said the major. “Bah! The
baron never fights; he never has fought. You do not know him at all,
then?”
“Not at all,” said Cristiano, calmly, as he smoked his pipe, and poured
out a large goblet of beer. “Have I really, like a true Don Quixote,
attacked a windmill? I did not know that I was making such a fool of
myself.”
“You have done nothing of the kind, my dear friend. Quite the contrary,
many persons will think that you have been exceedingly audacious to
oppose the Snow Man; and certainly that is my opinion.”
“I should have thought that a man of snow would easily thaw.”
“That is not the case in this country. Men of that kind remain standing
a long time.”
“I have been heroic, then, without knowing it.”
“You must try and not find it out at your own expense. The baron does
not fight, it is true; but he takes his revenge for all that, and he
never forgets an injury. It doesn’t matter where you may be, he will
pursue you with his hate; and it doesn’t matter what career you may
want to follow, he will put obstacles in your way. If you get into some
difficulty, as may happen to any high-spirited young fellow, he will
contrive to make it dangerous for you; and if he once has you thrown
into prison, there you will remain. My advice to you, therefore, is to
depart at once, and to remain constantly on your guard as long as you
live; at least, unless the devil chooses to wring the neck of his crony
this very night, under the pretence of a fit of apoplexy.”
“Do you think the baron so ill?” inquired Cristiano.
“We shall soon know all about it. Here is my lieutenant, Erwin Osburn,
who is my best friend, and who likes you as well as I do. How now,
lieutenant, what is the latest news of the Snow Man? Are there any
signs that the thaw is approaching?”
“No, it turns out to be nothing at all,” replied the lieutenant; “or,
anyhow, so he pretends. He went to his room for a moment, and returned
with such a good color, that I suspect him of daubing his pale cheeks
with rouge. His eyes are dull, however, and he hesitates in speaking.
I was curious enough to go up to him; and taking this as a mark of
respect, he condescended to inform me that it was his wish that the
dancing should go on, and that people should pay no further attention
to him. He is seated in the grand drawing-room, and what convinces
me that he is more uncomfortable than he confesses is, that he seems
entirely to have forgotten the outbreak of rage that threw him into
this fine state, and that nobody ventures to remind him of it.”
“Then the ball will go on,” said the major, “and you will see that it
will be gayer than ever. It seems as if the people here wanted to shake
off the thought of some approaching catastrophe, or as if the baron’s
heirs could not contain their joy at finding that he is really ill, and
has been so for some time. But you must tell us one thing, Christian
Goefle. Under what form did you appear to the baron? or what spell did
you cast over him? Are you a ghost or a sorcerer? Are you the _man of
the lake_, who fascinates people with a look of his icy eyes? What
is there in common between the baron and yourself, and why is it that
he should have uttered, in swooning, his famous exclamation, which I
heard to-day for the first time: ‘There it is! there it is!’”
“I wish you would explain it to me,” replied Cristiano; “for I have
been trying in vain to recall where I could have seen him; if we ever
did meet, the circumstances must have been very insignificant, since my
memory of them is so confused. Let me see, has he been travelling in
France or Italy since--”
“Oh, it is a long, long time since he left the north!”
“I am mistaken, then; I have never seen the baron before to-day. And
yet one would have said that he recognized me. May he not have been
delirious when he cried: ‘There it is! there it is!’”
“Oh, that is a sure thing,” said the major. “I have a gardener in my
_bostoelle_,[4] who was at one time one of his servants, and who
has told me a good many curious things about him. The baron is subject
to violent attacks, which his physician calls nervous attacks, and
which come from a chronic liver complaint. While these spells last,
he sometimes shows signs of the strangest fear. He, the sceptic, the
jeering infidel, is as cowardly as a child. He sees ghosts, especially
that of a woman, and it is at such moments that he cries: ‘There it is!
there it is!’ meaning, I suppose, ‘There, my fit is seizing me!’ or,
perhaps, ‘There is the ghost that haunts me!’”
“He seems to be tormented by remorse.”
“Some say it is the recollection of his sister-in-law.”
“Whom he assassinated?”
“They don’t say that he killed her, but merely that he caused her to
_disappear_.”
“Yes, that is a more elegant expression.”
“It is quite possible that there is no foundation for either story,”
resumed the major. “The fact is that we don’t know anything at all
about it, and that the baron is perhaps perfectly innocent of a great
many crimes of which he is accused. You know that we are living here
on the classical soil of the marvellous. The Dalecarlians have the
greatest horror of anything practical, and of natural explanations. You
cannot strike against a stone in this country, without supposing that a
goblin pushed it against you on purpose; if your nose itches, you must
run to a sibyl to be cured of a dwarf’s poisonous bite; nor is there a
driver who will mend the broken trace of a carriage or sleigh without
saying, ‘Come, come, little goblin, leave us alone; we are not doing
you any harm.’”
“You can readily imagine that the Baron de Waldemora could not become
very rich, in the midst of such a superstitious people, without being
considered an alchemist. Instead of supposing him to be paid by the
empress for sustaining her political interests, it was thought more
natural to accuse him of magic; and from this accusation to that of
the blackest crimes there is only a single step. Every sorcerer drowns
his victims in waterfalls, buries them in abysses, rides avalanches,
attends the witches’ Sabbath, and at the very least eats human flesh,
being thought quite moderate in his ferocious appetites if he only
sucks the blood of infants. For my part, I have heard so many stories
that I discredit them all, and confine myself to believing what I know;
and what I know is, that the baron is a wicked man, too cowardly to
strike another man; too well-fed and fastidious to drink blood; too
cold-blooded to lie in wait for travellers under frozen lakes; but
quite capable of sending his best friend to the gallows, if he had
any personal interest in doing so, and had only to utter some wicked
calumny to accomplish his purpose.”
“He is a great villain!” said Cristiano. “But allow me to express my
surprise at seeing so many respectable persons at his house--”
“You are right,” replied Osmund, without giving him time to continue.
“We are unquestionably to blame for coming to amuse ourselves at the
entertainments of a man whom we all hate. You have for an excuse that
you don’t know him, but as for the rest of us--”
“I did not make any personal allusions,” rejoined Cristiano.
“I know it, my dear fellow; but you should not be surprised to find
that a tyrant has a court. You are, of course, familiar with the
history of your country; but as you have been absent a number of years,
you may have thought that the progress of philosophy has established
a little equality between the different orders of the state. It is
not so at all, Christian Goefle, not at all; as you will soon see
with your own eyes. The nobility is all-powerful; then comes the
clergy, enlightened and austere, but also tyrannical and intolerant.
The bourgeoise, so useful in the state, and so patriarchal in their
manners, count for little, the peasantry for nothing at all, and the
king for less than nothing. When a nobleman is rich, which luckily
is very rare, he controls the interests and destinies of his whole
province, and he either makes men do as he chooses or ruins them. You
may rest assured that this would be the case with us young officers,
if we should offer any discourtesy to the illustrious Seigneur de
Waldemora. It is true that he could not deprive us of our rank, which
can only be forfeited in case of actual crime; but, in spite of the
inviolable laws of the indelta, we should be forced, by unheard-of
persecutions, to abandon our cantonments, houses, estates and friends,
as if we were a simple garrison.”
At this moment two other young men came in to smoke, and Cristiano
ventured to ask them whether Countess Elfride had returned to the
ball-room.
“You are a sly fellow!” replied one of them; “you will not persuade us
that you take such an interest in the wicked Countess Elfride. As for
her lovely niece, she disappeared at the same time with yourself, and
her aunt pretends that she is very lame.”
“_Disappeared_, did you say?” cried Cristiano, unreasonably
alarmed at the word.
“Come!” said the major, good-humoredly, “do you feel uneasy about your
beauty, my dear Goefle?”
“Excuse me, I have no right to speak so of Countess Margaret. She is
certainly beautiful; but, unfortunately for me, she is not _mine_
in any sense of the word.”
“I meant no harm,” replied Osmund, “I merely saw, like everybody else,
that she selected you for the partner of her first dance, and that you
seemed to be chatting together in a very friendly way. If you are not
in love with her you make a mistake, upon my honor, and if she don’t
feel some little weakness for you, perhaps she also makes a mistake,
for we all think you a capital fellow.”
“It would be altogether a mistake in me,” replied Cristiano, “to aspire
to a star too far above me.”
“Bah! because you have no title? But your family has been ennobled, and
your uncle, the lawyer, is a distinguished man in talent and character.
He is quite as rich, moreover, as the beautiful Margaret. Love removes
all obstacles, and if you have disagreeable relations, you can swear
fidelity in secret. In our country, such betrothals are as sacred as
any, and so, if you want to carry your point, we are all ready to help
you.”
“To help me in what?” said Cristiano, laughing.
“To an immediate interview with the countess, unknown to her aunt.
Well, comrades, what say you? here are four of us all ready. For
my part, I know where their rooms are, and we can go there without
a moment’s delay. If Mademoiselle Potin is frightened--pay her
compliments, which she really deserves, as to that, for she is a
charming person; and if a chambermaid screams, kiss her, and promise
her ribbons for her hair. Then we demand a serious conversation with
the Countess Margaret for Christian Goefle, in the name of M. Goefle,
his uncle, from whom he brings an important communication! Ha!--that’s
it. They will introduce us--but of course without our pipes--into
a little drawing-room, where we will sit down quietly apart, while
Christian Goefle addresses _la diva contessina_ in a low voice,
and offers her his heart; or, if he is too timid to do that, lets her
divine what his sentiments really are, while he inquires about the
dangers with which the peerless little lady is beset, and arranges with
her to avert them. I am not laughing, gentlemen. It is quite evident
that Madame d’Elveda wants to force the inclination of her ward, and
that the cunning Olaus is trying to compromise her, so as to drive off
all other suitors. Very well; the situation is magnificent for the
man, who, in a crowded ball-room, took up the gauntlet for the victim
of this odious and ridiculous plot. Come, Christian! come, gentlemen,
are you ready? _Parbleu!_ You shall have your turn! Another
time, Christian, you shall be the one to assist us in love affairs as
virtuous as your own; we ought to be able to rely upon each other to
that extent, we young folks. In Heaven’s name, what would have become
of us before now, if we were not all devoted friends and confidants?
Forward! To the assault of the citadel. Follow me, if you love me!”
All started up, even Cristiano himself, for he could not help being
carried away by the proposition, but he paused at the door of the room,
and stopped the others.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” he said, “and depend upon it that I will go
through fire for you when necessary, but I have no right to introduce
this sweet romance into my life. Nothing in the conduct of Countess
Margaret authorized me to undertake her defence, which I did in a
moment of thoughtless indignation, and I have no reason now to hope
that she thanks me for my interference. She may be offended, on the
contrary; and it belongs to M. Goefle the lawyer, and to him alone, to
protect her from her aunt, by acquainting her with her rights. The best
thing for me to do, since my beautiful partner has left off dancing,
and my terrible rival does not fight, is to go and have a good sleep,
of which I am really very much in need, since I have been upon my feet
for more than twenty-four hours.”
Cristiano’s sentiments were approved of, and he was loudly applauded
for his gallantry. They tried to make him stop and drink with them,
supposing this to be an irresistible temptation, but Cristiano was
sober, as the inhabitants of warm countries usually are. The night
was advancing, and he thought it more prudent to put an end to the
comedy performed hitherto with so much success. He shook hands with
his new friends, bade them adieu, promised to return to breakfast
while inwardly resolving to do nothing of the kind, and without giving
them time to inquire what part of the new chateau he was stopping in,
returned lightly and mysteriously over the frozen lake.
It was on purpose that he left Loki, and the sleigh of the doctor of
laws, at the new chateau; he was afraid that they would be heard, and
cause him to be observed. He walked along the shore, until too far to
be seen from the windows of the chateau, and then crossed to the door
of Stollborg, which he had left open, and which no one, Ulphilas least
of all, had thought of coming to fasten.
He took these precautions, because, to the pale light of the moon,
which was no longer visible, had succeeded the fleeting but brilliant
splendor of a magnificent aurora borealis. It was magnificent, at all
events, for this region, although it is quite probable that it would
have been a very ordinary display at a higher degree of north latitude;
and yet the illumination towards the polar regions must have been
unusually vivid at this moment, for it lighted up the whole country,
and every object around the frozen lake. The snow, under its varying
reflections, was showing a fantastic and magnificent succession of red
and blue colors, and Cristiano, before entering the bear-room, remained
for several moments at the door of the court, unable, in spite of the
cold and solitude, to tear himself from this wonderful spectacle.
[Footnote 4: The _bostoelle_ of the officers of the _indelta_
is a house and lands, which they have the use of, and whose rent is
proportioned to their rank. This rent is their salary. The minister’s
house is also called his _bostoelle_, and the minister has the use
of it besides his other perquisites. The soldier of the _indelta_
has his _torp_, his little house with a garden and a few acres of
land. The _indelta_ is a rural army, whose excellent organization
was formed by Charles XII., and to which there is nothing analogous
elsewhere.]