CHRISTIAN had listened attentively to the lawyer’s narrative, and,
after a few moments’ reflection, he observed:
“There is a great deal in this history that seems to me extremely
ambiguous. I feel sorry for that poor Baroness Hilda; of all the
persons of this drama, she is the one who interests me the most. Who
knows whether she did not really die of starvation in this horrible
chamber, as so many believe.”
“Ah! that is entirely out of the question!” cried M. Goefle. “The idea
really tormented me, so much has been said about it; but Stenson, who
assuredly would never have allowed such a thing to happen, gave me his
word of honor that he had served and waited upon the baroness to the
last, and was with her during her last moments. She did really die of
inanition, but it was because her stomach refused to retain food. The
baron spared no pains to furnish her with whatever she desired.”
“No doubt,” replied Christian; “if he is as adroit as your story
indicates, he would be unlikely to commit a useless murder. All that he
needed was to kill the poor lady with fear or grief. But there is still
another explanation, M. Goefle; my own version!”
“What is that?”
“That she is not dead.”
“That is impossible. And still, no one ever knew what was done with her
body.”
“There--you see!”
“The pastor refused it burial in the parish cemetery. There is no
Catholic cemetery here, and it would seem that she must have been
buried by night in Stenson’s orchard, or elsewhere.”
“Why, did Stenson never tell you?”
“Stenson will not be questioned on this point. The memory of the
baroness is at once dear and awful to him. He loved her sincerely,
and served her zealously; but he refuses to say anything about her
religious belief, whatever it may have been, and it both terrifies and
distresses him to have the subject even referred to.”
“Very well; but what does he say of the baron?”
“Nothing.”
“That perhaps is saying a great deal.”
“Very true; but still, silence is not a charge of murder.”
“Then we need discuss it no further, if you are satisfied, M. Goefle.
And after all, what does it matter to us? The past is past. Only, you
said that the sight of that spectre had filled your mind with strange
doubts.”
“That was only because it is a weakness of our profession to turn
everything into a subject of investigation--though I have always
tried to guard myself against it. We have enough to do to arrive at
the facts of the different cases with which we are intrusted, without
volunteering to batter our brains over those that do not concern us.
Beyond a doubt, it is because I have been idle for a few days that my
mind keeps at work in spite of myself, and that I have summoned up from
the shades of the forgotten past, the form of the Baroness Hilda--”
“Particularly,” said Christian, “as the being who appeared to you
was not perhaps a vision, but quite simply some living person, whose
costume happened to be like that of the old picture.”
“I should be glad to think so, but people who pass through walls are
none other than the sad inhabitants of the land of gloomy imaginations.”
“Wait a moment, M. Goefle; you saw the phantom enter; but you have not
told me which way it disappeared.”
“I could not, since I do not know. I should say on the same side where
it came in.”
“By the secret door, then.”
“Is there one?”
“Did you not know it?”
“No, I did not, really.”
“Well, then, come and see it.”
Christian took the candle and lighted M. Goefle to the spot; but the
secret door was shut from the outside. It was so accurately fitted
into the wood-work that it was impossible to distinguish it from the
other panels, which were all ornamented with a similar raised moulding,
and so thick that it gave back the same dull sound as the rest of the
oak wainscot. Besides, it was strongly fastened behind by the large
bolts that Christian had noticed the evening before. He had left them
unfastened, but they had now been bolted, probably by the same hand
that had padlocked the outer door at the foot of the secret staircase.
Christian mentioned all this to M. Goefle, who was obliged to take his
word for it, as he had no means of going to certify the facts.
“Believe me, M. Goefle,” said Christian, “either some old servant of
M. Stenson’s came in here yesterday to put the room in order, without
knowing that it had been invaded, or the Baroness Hilda is kept a
prisoner somewhere in the building, either under our feet or over our
heads; in the walled-up rooms above, for aught that I know. And by the
way, how about that built-up door--you did not tell me where it led to,
nor why it was closed. And yet that seems to me a rather interesting
circumstance.”
“A very ordinary one. Stenson told me all about it. The room over this
was for a long time completely out of repair. When the Baroness Hilda
took refuge at Stollborg, she had the door closed up because it let
in the wind and the cold. After her death, Stenson had it opened, to
make repairs in the masonry of the upper part of the building. But as
it would have cost more than it was worth to make the place habitable,
and as nobody would have ventured to occupy rooms that were regarded
as the devil’s very head-quarters, on account of the Catholic chapel
that was supposed to have been erected there, Stenson, with the baron’s
permission--as he himself told me--built it up solid again with his own
hands. He did this both out of economy--there being no further use for
the door--and to put a stop to the superstitious stories in circulation
about the old building.”
“Still, M. Goefle, you saw the supposed phantom come out from behind
the map of Sweden that covers that masonry?”
“Oh, that was only a dream! Go and look, Christian. You will be more
successful than I was, if you can find a practicable door there. Do
you think I did not go and examine the place as soon as the vision
disappeared?”
“Of course,” said Christian, who had already ascended the stairs,
raised the map of Sweden, and was rapping at different parts of the
wall beneath it. “There’s nothing here but a wall as thick as the rest,
if I can judge by the dulness of the sound. The red paint also is
accurately matched, and well laid on across the joinings; but did you
notice, M. Goefle, how this plaster is scratched in the middle here?”
“Yes; I thought it had been done by a rat!”
“Very strange sort of work for a rat! Do you see what regular little
circles he has traced on the wall?”
“True; but what of it?”
“Every effect has a cause; that is what I am seeking. Did you not say
that among the sounds you had heard there was a scratching?”
“Yes; a grinding, as if of some tool.”
“Well, do you know what I think it was? Some feeble or unskilful hand
trying to break a hole in the wall, and look through.”
“It must have been with a nail, then, or something still smaller, for
the scratch in the plaster is certainly not more than two lines deep.”
“Not so much; and yet it has been cut into perseveringly in many
places.”
“Stenson may have made those marks, to fix in his mind something or
other that he did not choose to write down. Come, you must know how to
decipher all sorts of lapidary inscriptions.”
“I know enough to say that it is no inscription, and belongs to no
known language. I hold to my idea, that it was an attempt to pierce the
wall. See, in each place there is a small hole with bevelled edges,
made with a blunt instrument, and around it a circle, scratched into
the white of the plaster, as if a pair of scissors had been used, after
the fashion of a pair of dividers, but with one prong--that serving as
the feeble support--broken.”
“You are ingenious.”
“Ingenious enough for that; do you see that little pile of white dust
recently fallen on the upper stair?”
“Well?”
“Well, this person--whoever you may choose to consider her, an
illustrious captive, or an old servant, who runs about the building at
all hours--came here last night; not for the first time, but for the
twentieth at least--to try and look through this wall. Or, stay--better
yet! She knows there is a secret there--some invisible means of opening
this invisible door--and she is searching, and feeling, and digging, to
try and discover it. If we watch her to-night we shall find a clue to
the mystery.”
“Upon my word, that is a good idea, and I accept it the more willingly
because it relieves my mind of a real burden. Instead of being a seer
of visions, I should then have seen a real person. I very much prefer
to think it is so, although I am a little ashamed of myself for having
had any doubts on the subject. However, Christian, I must tell you
one thing frankly. I do not believe there is any prisoner here, for,
in that case, there would have to be a prison and a jailer. Now this
room was open on both sides when you arrived, since you came in by one
door and went out by the other, and there is no one for a jailer except
Stenson, who is honest and devoted.”
“But the baroness was certainly imprisoned here with more or less
severity, and your honest Stenson was employed here then--”
“No, it has never been made to appear that there was any actual
imprisonment; and even if it were so, Stenson was not master of
Stollborg at that time. Now, when he alone has charge of it, for I
presume you do not count Ulphilas as anybody--”
“Say what you like, M. Goefle, there is some mystery here; and whatever
it is, whether great or trifling, I mean to solve it. But, great
heavens, what am I thinking about! Time is passing, Puffo does not come
back, and here I am amusing myself by inventing a romance when I ought
to be thinking about the one I am to perform! I knew, M. Goefle, that
when you made me eat, you would set me talking and make me forget my
work!”
“Well, well, my boy, make your preparations, then. I promised to help
you, you know!”
“You can’t help me, M. Goefle, I must have my assistant. I’ll go and
look him up.”
“Very well, go then. In the meanwhile I will go and see Stenson, to
whom I have not yet had leisure to pay my respects, and who probably
does not know I am here. He never comes into these premises--”
“Ah, I beg your pardon, M. Goefle, he does. He came in here only a
little while ago. I saw him while you had gone out. There; I forgot to
tell you of it. He took me either for the devil or for a ghost, for he
was in an awful fright, and made his escape stumbling, and absolutely
out of his wits with terror.”
“Pshaw! Really? Is he so much of a coward as that? But I have no right
to laugh at him, after imagining that I saw the _Gray Lady_. He
certainly cannot have taken you for her!”
“I don’t know who he took me for--perhaps for the ghost of Baron
Adelstan.”
“What? Well, it is possible. There is his portrait, opposite to his
wife’s; it is much of your size and figure. Still--in that costume--”
“I had not put it on. I was still in your black clothes.”
“Why, what are you doing now? Masking?”
“No, I only put my mask on my head in case I should have to go as far
as to the new chateau to find Puffo.”
“Let me see the mask--it must be very unpleasant.”
“Not at all; it is on a plan of my own; light and supple, all of
silk, and lifting upon the head like the visor of a cap that can be
put up or down at pleasure. When raised and hidden by my hat, it at
least helps to hide my hair, which is so thick that it would attract
attention. When it is down--I find it very comfortable, by the way, in
this climate--it is in no danger of falling, and I am not annoyed by
being constantly obliged to tie and untie a ribbon, which, moreover, is
liable to break or become entangled. See what a neat invention it is!”
“Excellent! But your voice--how will you keep from being recognized by
that?”
“Oh, that is my talent, my specialty! You know it very well, for you
have been present at one of my performances.”
“True. I would have taken my oath that there were a dozen of you in the
box. I must see you this evening, by the way; I shall go and sit with
the audience, but I don’t want to know the piece beforehand. Well, good
luck to you, my boy! I’m going to try and extract some explanation out
of old Sten about my apparition. But what is that cypress-bough that
you are putting on the frame of the _Gray Lady’s_ picture?”
“That is another thing that I forgot to tell you. M. Stenson brought
it. I don’t know what he meant to do with it, but he threw it down at
my feet; and whatever his intention was, I am going to make a memorial
offering of it to this poor Baroness Hilda.”
“You may be sure, Christian, that this was also the intention of the
good old man. It is either to-morrow or to-day--stay a moment; I
have a good memory for dates--_Mon Dieu!_ this very day is the
anniversary of the death of the baroness. That accounts for Sten’s
prevailing on himself to come here, to offer some prayer or other.”
“Then,” said Christian, as he detached the little slip of parchment
which M. Goefle had taken for a ribbon from the branch around which it
was rolled, “see if you can explain the verses of the Bible that are
written on that. My time is so short that I will go without waiting
now.”
“Stay,” said M. Goefle, who had put on his spectacles to read the slip
of parchment; “if you go as far as to the new chateau, and find Master
Nils, who has not come back here to attend to my lunch, will you do me
the pleasure to take him by one ear and bring him along with you?”
Christian promised to bring him, alive or dead, but he did not have to
go very far to find both his own valet and M. Goefle’s. He went into
the stable, where it occurred to him to look before leaving the court,
and there he found Puffo and Nils snoring side by side, and both of
them equally drunk. Ulphilas, who could bear liquor better, was walking
backward and forward about the place, very well satisfied at not being
left alone at nightfall, and from time to time casting a fraternal
eye upon the two comrades of his revel. Christian saw how things had
gone. Nils, who understood both Swedish and Dalecarlian, had acted as
interpreter between the two drunkards, and their growing friendship had
been cemented in the cellar. The poor little valet did not require much
of a trial to become quite oblivious of his master, even supposing that
he had been distressing himself particularly about him before. Now, he
was lying warm and snug in the dry moss which they use for litter in
that country, with cheeks red and nose on fire, and, as well as Puffo,
had forgotten all about the cares of this vile world.
“Very good,” said M. Goefle to Christian, who met him in the court, and
brought him to see this touching spectacle; “as long as the little
rascal is not ill, I am very well satisfied not to have to wait upon
him.”
“But what am I to do, M. Goefle?” said Christian, in a great deal of
perplexity; “I can’t do without this beast of a Puffo. I have shaken
him, but in vain. He’s dead for the present. I know him; he won’t be
himself for ten or twelve hours.”
“Pshaw, pshaw!” answered M. Goefle, who was evidently preoccupied; “go
and select your piece, and don’t trouble yourself; a smart fellow like
you is never at a loss.”
And leaving Christian to get out of his difficulties as he best might,
he walked on with his usual short, quick, determined step, straight to
the pavilion, in the new gaard which Stenson occupied. Evidently the
three verses of the Bible were whirling about busily in his head.
The lower floor of this pavilion was a sort of vestibule, which
Ulphilas, who was afraid of being alone, preferred to his own lodging,
and where he slept under the pretence of being at hand to wait upon
his uncle, whose great age needed constant attendance. Ulph had just
come into this vestibule, and had thrown himself down upon his bed,
where he was already fast asleep and snoring. M. Goefle was about
ascending to the upper floor, when he was arrested by the sound of
voices in conversation. Two persons were talking, with great animation,
in Italian. The voice of one of them was pitched in a high key, as is
often the case with deaf persons, who cannot themselves hear what they
are saying; this was Stenson. He spoke the language with a good deal of
facility, but with a detestable accent, and very incorrectly. The other
person, who was speaking pure Italian in a noticeably clear voice,
and with a very distinct pronunciation, seemed to make himself heard,
in spite of the old man’s deafness. M. Goefle was very much surprised
to find that Stenson understood Italian, and could express himself in
it either well or ill, for he did not know that he had ever had any
occasion to use it. The conversation was being carried on in Stenson’s
office, which opened into his sleeping-room. The door at the head of
the stairs was closed; but M. Goefle, taking a few steps up, heard a
fragment of the dialogue, in substance as follows:
“No,” said Stenson, “you are mistaken. The baron has no interest in
making this discovery.”
“Possibly, M. Steward,” replied the unknown; “but it will not cost me
anything to ascertain.”
“Then you propose to sell the secret to the highest bidder?”
“Perhaps so. What do you offer?”
“Nothing! I am poor, because I have always been honest and
disinterested. I do not even own anything in this place. I have only my
life. You may take that, if you choose.”
At these words, which seemed to imply that old Stenson was at the mercy
of some bandit, M. Goefle sprang up two more steps at a stride, to come
to the rescue; but the Italian resumed, with perfect composure:
“What should I do with that, Monsieur Stenson? Come, take courage! you
can get yourself out of the difficulty by looking up some of your old
crowns in your old box. Old people always have one. You found the means
of paying Manasses, so as to secure his discretion.”
“Manasses was an honest man. That salary--”
“Was not intended for him, I have no doubt; but he thought otherwise,
for he always kept it for himself alone.”
“You are slandering him.”
“Well, whether that is so or not, he is dead; and the other--”
“He is dead, too. I know it.”
“You know it! How do you know it?”
“I am not obliged to say. But I am certain that he is dead, and you can
tell the baron anything you please. I am not afraid of you. Adieu! I
have not long to live, so leave me to prepare for another world; it is
the only thing that I occupy myself about. Adieu! Leave me, I tell you.
I have no money.”
“That is your last word, is it? You know that within two hours I shall
have taken service with the baron?”
“That makes no difference to me.”
“You don’t suppose I have come so far to be paid with nothing but such
talk?”
“Do whatever you choose.”
The door now opened, and M. Goefle stepped resolutely up towards the
person who came out. He found himself confronting a man who seemed
about thirty years of age, and who was quite handsome, though his face
was singularly pale, and forbidding in expression. The lawyer’s eyes
met the stranger’s as they passed close to each other on the narrow
stairway; the gaze of the former was open, severe, and scrutinizing;
that of the latter, oblique and distrustful. The unknown, however,
bowed civilly, and passed down to the foot of the stairs, while M.
Goefle proceeded to the top; but having reached those points, both
turned for another look, and the advocate was struck with something
diabolical in the sallow face below him gleaming in the light of
the small lamp that hung before the inner door of the vestibule. On
entering Stenson’s room he found him seated with his head resting on
his hands, as motionless as a statue, so that he was obliged to touch
his arm to make known his presence. Even then, such was the old man’s
abstraction, that he looked up with a stupefied air; it was some
moments before he recognized his visitor and recovered his presence
of mind. Recollecting himself at last, he arose with a great effort
and saluted M. Goefle with his usual politeness, inquiring after
his health, and offering his own chair, which the lawyer, however,
declined. On taking his hand, he found it warm and wet, either with
perspiration or with tears. M. Goefle was deeply moved; he felt a great
esteem and affection for Sten, and always treated him with the respect
that was the proper tribute to his age and character. It was easy to
see that the old man had passed through a terrible crisis, and that he
had endured it with dignity; but what could this secret be which this
stranger with the suspicious face and cynical language appeared to be
holding suspended, like the sword of Damocles, over his head?
Stenson had by this time recovered his usual grave, and rather cold
and ceremonious, demeanor. He had never been companionable with any
one. Whether from pride or shyness, he was as reserved with people
whom he had known thirty years, as with those whom he met for the first
time; and he was in the habit, moreover, of replying in monosyllables
to all questions, the most important as well as the most trifling;
knowing this, M. Goefle had been the more surprised at his connected
conversation with the unknown, which he had overheard.
“I did not know that you had come to Waldemora, M. Goefle,” he said;
“is it about the lawsuit?”
“Yes, the baron’s suit with his neighbor of Elfdalen, who, I think, may
be in the right of it; I have advised the baron to arrange the affair,
without pushing it to a legal decision. Can you hear me, M. Stenson?”
“Yes, monsieur, perfectly.”
As the old man, from an excess of politeness, always made this reply
whether he heard or not, M. Goefle, who was determined to have some
conversation with him, put his mouth to his ear, and took pains to
articulate every syllable very distinctly, but he soon saw that this
precaution was less necessary now than had been the case in former
years. Stenson’s deafness, far from having increased, seemed to be
sensibly diminished. M. Goefle congratulated Sten on this, but he shook
his head, and said:
“It is temporary only; it changes a great deal. To-day I hear
everything.”
“Does not this occur when you have experienced some strong emotion?”
asked M. Goefle.
Stenson looked at the lawyer with surprise, and, after hesitating a
moment, made this answer--which was no answer at all:
“I am nervous--extremely nervous.”
“Might I inquire,” asked M. Goefle, “who the man was whom I just met
going out from here?”
“I do not know.”
“Did you not ask his name?”
“He is an Italian.”
“But what is his name?”
“He said it was Guido.”
“Does he propose to enter the baron’s service?”
“Possibly.”
“He has a bad face.”
“Do you think so?”
“However, it will not be the only one about the baron.”
Stenson gave no sign of assent, and his face remained unpassable. It
was not easy to enter into conversation on delicate and confidential
topics with a man whose ceremonious bearing seemed constantly to say,
“Talk of your own business to me, not of mine.” But M. Goefle was
urged on by the demon of curiosity, and would not allow himself to be
repulsed.
“This Italian was talking to you rather rudely,” he said with
abruptness.
“Do you think so?” replied the old man, with an air of indifference.
“I heard him while I was coming up stairs.”
Sten’s face showed some traces of emotion, but he asked no question
betraying any uneasiness at what M. Goefle might have heard.
“He was threatening you,” added the latter.
“With what?” asked Stenson, shrugging his shoulders; “I am so old--”
“He threatened to reveal something to the baron, which it is greatly to
your interest to keep concealed.”
Stenson remained perfectly quiet, as if he had not heard. M. Goefle
persisted:
“Who is this Manasses who is dead?”
The same silence upon Stenson’s part, while his impenetrable eyes,
fixed on M. Goefle, seemed to say, “If you know, why do you ask?”
“And _the other_,” the advocate went on, “what other was he
speaking of?”
“Were you listening, M. Goefle?” questioned the old man in his turn,
with a tone of extreme deference, but in which there was a distinct
accent of disapproval.
The advocate felt some embarrassment, but his consciousness of his good
intentions reassured him.
“Are you surprised, M. Stenson,” he asked, after a pause, “that when I
suddenly heard an unknown voice speaking to you in a threatening tone,
I should have approached to help you, if necessary?”
Stenson held out to M. Goefle his aged, wrinkled hand, which had become
cold once more.
His lips moved for some moments without uttering a sound--a natural
action with a person unaccustomed to talking, and struggling to
overcome his habitual reserve; but he hesitated so long, that M.
Goefle, to encourage him, said:
“My dear M. Stenson, there is a secret oppressing you, and you are in
serious danger in consequence.”
Stenson sighed, and replied laconically:
“I am an honest man, M. Goefle!”
“And yet,” answered the lawyer, with emphasis, “your conscience--a
pious and sensitive one--is reproaching you for something!”
“Something?” repeated Stenson, with an air mild and yet firm, as much
as to say, “Let me hear what you can allege against me!”
“You have, at least, to fear the vengeance of the baron?”
“No,” answered Stenson, with sudden decision of tone, “I know what the
doctor told me.”
“Has the doctor given him up? Is his complaint so much advanced as
that? I saw him this morning. He looked to me as if he might last a
good while.”
“For months,” replied Stenson, “and I may last for years. I consulted
the doctor yesterday; I do so every year.”
“You are waiting for his death, then, to reveal something of
importance. But you are aware that he is said to be capable of having
people whom he is afraid of assassinated. What do you think on that
subject?”
Stenson answered by a look of surprise, which M. Goefle thought
unquestionably assumed, for it was succeeded immediately by an
expression of repressed anxiety. Stenson knew how to restrain himself,
but not how to dissimulate.
“Stenson,” said the lawyer, with the energy of genuine sincerity,
as he took both the old man’s hands in his, “I tell you again, some
oppressive secret is weighing upon you. Open your heart to me as a
friend. You may rely upon me, if there is an injustice to be made good.”
Stenson hesitated for some moments; then, taking a key from his pocket,
he opened, in an agitated manner, a drawer of his desk, and, showing M.
Goefle a small sealed box, he said:
“Your word of honor?”
“I give it you!”
“And upon the holy Bible?”
“Upon the holy Bible--now then?--”
“Well, then, if I die before _him_, open, read, and act. But only
after I am dead.”