“You had already chosen me for this trust,” he said; “I thank you for
it, my friend, but, if your life is threatened, why not tell me the
whole at once? There, dear M. Stenson, I am beginning to open my eyes!
The baron--”
Stenson made a sign that he would not answer.
“He starved his sister-in-law to death!”
“No,” cried Stenson, with the emphasis of truth, “no, no! That was not
the case!”
“But that declaration respecting her pregnancy--she was forced to sign
it.”
“She signed voluntarily, of her own free-will. I was present, and
signed it also myself.”
“But what became of her body? Was it thrown to the dogs?”
“Oh, my God! Was I not there? It was buried with religious services.”
“By you?”
“By my own hands. But you are inquisitive! Give me the box!”
“Do you doubt my oath?”
“No,” replied the old man; “keep it--and ask me no more questions.”
He once more pressed M. Goefle’s hands, took a seat near the fire,
and, either in reality or by design, relapsed into entire deafness.
M. Goefle, to divert his mind, and hoping, after a little, to draw
him again into a confidential mood, endeavored to talk with him about
the lawsuit on which the baron had consulted him in the morning. But
this time he was obliged to write what he wanted to say, when the
old man answered with his usual clearness. His opinion was that the
mineral property of the mountain-track in litigation belonged to the
Count de Rosenstein, a neighbor of the baron. He stated good grounds
for this belief, and, after searching among his papers, which were all
arranged and marked with the greatest care, he laid out the actual
proofs. M. Goefle observed that this was his own opinion, and that he
should be forced to have a disagreement with the baron, if the latter
should persist in seeking to employ him in a bad cause. He added some
reflections as to the presumed wicked character of his client, but
Stenson showed no signs of understanding these allusions; and as it is
impossible to take a person by surprise in a written conversation, M.
Goefle had to give up the idea of questioning him further.
On his way back to the bear-room, the lawyer considered whether he
ought to communicate to Christian the understanding he had entered
into with Stenson, and concluded that he was, on the whole, bound
to silence. He was, besides, not just now in a confidential humor.
Agitated by a thousand strange thoughts and contradictory suppositions,
his brain was as actively at work as if he had just been intrusted
with a difficult suit full of important questions. The exact contrary
was the case, for Stenson had prohibited him from even feeling
curiosity. This interdict, however, was altogether null; M. Goefle
could not at all impose silence upon the tumult of his hypotheses.
However, Christian’s attitude made it easy for him to be reserved.
Far from questioning him, the young man had forgotten all about their
last conversation, and was absorbed by his comedy. He was, moreover,
very much discouraged; and when the lawyer asked if he had arranged
to do without his assistant, he answered that he had been trying in
vain to do so for the last hour. He could, it is true, dispense with
his services after a fashion; but at the risk of many accidents and
undesirable omissions in the presentation of the piece. On the whole,
he would have to make such heavy drafts on his brain and strength, and
undergo such great fatigue, that he felt like giving up the whole thing.
“It is true,” he said to M. Goefle, who was trying to encourage him. “I
give you my word that, to use a juggler’s phrase, the game is not worth
the candle. In plain words, I should tire myself to death, without
benefit to my reputation, and I should swindle the baron out of his
money. Do you know what I intend to do, M. Goefle? Renouncing the idea
of shining in this neighborhood, I shall bundle up all this luggage,
and take up my line of march for some town where I can look up another
assistant, competent to help me in representing, and pious enough to
keep the oath which I shall exact from him, to drink nothing but water,
even though all the mountains of Sweden should run down with wine!”
“The devil! the devil!” exclaimed M. Goefle, greatly discomposed at
the idea of losing his fellow-lodger; “if I thought I could make these
small gentlemen perform a little--but, pshaw! I never could learn it!”
“Nothing easier. Try. The forefinger in the head, the thumb in one arm,
the middle finger in the other--that’s it! that’s it, exactly. Come,
make a bow. Lift the hands towards heaven!”
“That’s easy enough! But to make the gestures match the words, and then
to find something to say! I can only improvise monologue.”
“Well, that’s a great deal. Come, now, argue a case. Lift that arm,
and forget that you are M. Goefle; keep your eye on the figure that
you are directing. As you speak, the gestures that you would naturally
make with your arms, and the whole carriage of your person, will be
reproduced of themselves at your fingers’ ends. You only need to be
convinced that the _burattino_ is a real person, and to transfer
your individuality from yourself to him.”
“_Diantre!_ That is very easy for you to say; but without any
practice--well, let’s try it. Suppose I am arguing,--what shall I
argue, by the way?”
“Defend the baron from the charge of having caused the assassination of
his brother!”
“Defend! I would rather argue against than for him.”
“If you are against him, you will be pathetic; if for him, you may
perhaps be comic.”
“So be it,” said M. Goefle, extending the hand on which he held the
marionette, and making it gesticulate. “Here goes; attend:
“What accusation can you bring against my client, you who reproach
him for an action so simple and natural as merely the suppression of
a troublesome member of his family? Why should he be blamed for that?
When has it ever been expected that a man fond of money and display
should pay regard to the vulgar consideration which you call the right
to live? The right to live! We all claim it equally, and if we have the
right to live, have we not also the right to live as we please? But if
we cannot live without a considerable fortune, without the privileges
of an elevated station; if we find that we should die of shame and
mortification, fairly burst with ennui, to use a colloquial phrase,
unless able to command luxury, castles, credit, and power; if all this
is so, why, then, we possess the right, we demand the right, we seize
the right, of removing from our path all obstacles whatever which may
impede the most expansive, extensive, and radiant development of our
whole moral and physical being. In our justification we may--”
“Higher!” interrupted Christian, who was laughing at the satirical
argument of the lawyer.
“We may cite,” continued M. Goefle, elevating the pitch of his voice,
“the traditions of ancient times, from Cain down to the great King
Birger-Iarl, who starved his two brothers to death in the chateau of
Nikœping. Yes, gentlemen, we point you to the ancient customs of the
north, and, moreover, to the glorious example of the court of Russia of
late years. Who of you will venture to weigh petty moralities against
the great consideration of a reason of state? I say a reason of state,
gentlemen. Do you know what that is?”
“Higher!” repeated Christian; “higher, M. Goefle!”
“A reason of state,” squealed M. Goefle, in a falsetto--for the range
of his voice did not extend high at all--“a reason of state is, in my
judgment--”
“Higher!”
“Go to the devil! I shall burst my pharynx! I’ve had enough, thank you,
if I’ve got to scream in that way.”
“Why, no, my dear sir! I did not tell you to speak higher. I’ve been
lifting up my arm to you this hour; you do not observe that if you hold
the marionette down there at the level of your breast no one can see
it, and that you will be playing exclusively for your own benefit. See
here: your hand must be higher than your head. Come, now, let’s try
a dialogue. I am the counsel on the other side, and I interrupt you
in an excess of indignation, which I cannot restrain: ‘I absolutely
cannot endure this any longer; and since the judges think proper to
sit sleeping on the bench before such an abuse of the faculty of human
speech, notwithstanding the specious eloquence of my illustrious and
powerful adversary, I--’ Interrupt me, M. Goefle; you must always
interrupt.”
“‘The counsel for the prosecution,’” said M. Goefle, “‘is not arguing
at present.’ I am playing the judge, now.”
“Very good; but use another voice.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes, indeed; you have one hand free. Pinch your nose.”
“Good!” said M. Goefle, with a strong twang. “‘The counsel for the
prosecution will speak in his own turn.’”
“Bravo! ‘I insist on speaking this moment! I demand the right of
confounding the odious sophistry of the defence!--’”
“‘Odious sophistry!’”
“Capital! oh, capital! In an angry tone! Now I reply: ‘Orator without
principle! I hand you over to the ban of Public Opinion!’ Give me a
slap, M. Goefle.”
“What!--give you a slap?”
“Certainly, my lawyer, I mean; fair in the face, and let it be a loud
one. The public always laughs at that sound. Hold tight with your
fingers; I’m going to pull your cap off. Now we collar each other.
Bravo! Pull the marionette off my fingers with yours, and throw it
over into the audience. The children run after it, pick it up, examine
it with admiration, and throw it back into the theatre. Take care and
have it fall on its head; the public will almost burst with laughter.
God only knows what for, but they always do it. Abuse and blows are a
delightful spectacle to the crowd; and under cover of the laughter,
your personage marches off the stage with a triumphant air.”
“And we have time to take breath! In good season, too; I have talked
myself hoarse.”
“Take breath? Oh, not at all! The operators can never stop to take
breath. We must hurry and take the actors for the next scene; and for
fear the audience will lose its interest before an empty stage, we must
keep up the dialogue, as if the actors who just went off were still
quarrelling behind the scenes, or as if those on the point of coming on
were chattering about what had just happened.”
“Plague on it! Why it’s a business that would wear out a horse!”
“I don’t deny it; still you get excited and warmed up, and keep on
growing more and more spirited. Well, let us try another scene, M.
Goefle. Let us bring out--”
“But I have had quite enough of it, I believe. Do you suppose I want to
help you conduct the exhibition?”
“I thought you meant that you would help me this evening!”
“I? What! I go on the stage?”
“Who will know that it is you? The theatre will be set up immediately
before the door of a room where no one is allowed to enter. There is a
curtain between you and the audience; and, if necessary, you can mask
yourself, if there is any risk of being met in the corridors as you go
in or out.”
“True enough, nobody sees you, nobody knows that you are there; but my
voice, my pronunciation? Before I should have uttered a dozen words
every one would say: ‘Good! that’s M. Goefle!’ A fine effect that would
have, from a man of my age, practising a dignified profession! It’s
impossible; don’t think of it.”
“It’s a great pity--you would succeed capitally!”
“Do you think so?”
“Most assuredly. You would have secured me a great success.”
“But that devil of a voice of mine, that everybody knows!”
“There are a thousand ways of changing that. I can show you three or
four in a quarter of an hour, and that is more than you would need for
this evening.”
“Well, what are they? If I were only sure that nobody would suspect
me of such a piece of nonsense! Ah, there’s an instrument that I can
see the use of--a nose-pinch! And this one is to be used in the mouth,
either on the tongue or under it.”
“Oh no!” said Christian; “those are rude contrivances that Puffo uses.
You are too intelligent to need them. Now listen, and imitate me.”
“Really,” said M. Goefle, after some experiments that were promptly
successful, “it is not so bad! I used to act in private theatricals in
my younger days, and I did as well as other people. I understand very
well how to imitate a toothless old man, a drawling coxcomb, and a
pedant that licks his lips at every word. Now, if you will not make me
talk too much and fatigue my throat, I will go through three or four
scenes with you. But we must have a rehearsal. What is the piece? Where
is it? What’s the name?”
“Wait a minute, M. Goefle. I have a number of manuscripts that you
would be ready with after reading them over once; especially since the
one represented, summed up in few words, and written in large letters,
is always hung up before us inside of the front of the theatre. But
what I should like in playing with you is, to arrange a new piece,
which would entertain you more, and would give scope to your faculty
for improvising. Now, if you will take my opinion, we will go right to
work, and get one up between us.”
“That’s an excellent idea!” said M. Goefle. “Well, quick, then! let’s
sit down here; we can make room enough on this table. What shall the
subject be?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Well, then, your own history, Christian; or at least some parts of it,
just as you told it to me.”
“No, M. Goefle, my history is not an amusing one, and it would not
inspire me with any brilliant fancies. The only romantic part of it
is just that which I am myself ignorant about, and I have often taken
this as the basis of my Stentarello’s adventures. Stentarello, you
know, is a personage who adapts himself to all characters and all
situations. Well, one of my fancies is to attribute to him a mysterious
birth, such as mine was; and I often begin my pieces by making him
narrate the precise circumstances of that story, whether true or
false, which the little Jew told Sophia Goffredi. I have sometimes
amused myself by the idea that I should some day hear an exclamation
or a cry in the audience that would be the means of directing me to my
mother. But that is a mere fancy. As for Stentarello, he is a comic
individual, sometimes young and sometimes old, according as I nail a
blond or a white wig on his head. Of course, in order to be laughed
at, he must be ridiculous. In such a plot as I refer to, and which I
propose that we should adopt, he goes about in search of his parents,
taking it for granted that he is nothing less than the natural son of
a king. Then the action of the piece takes him through a series of
absurd adventures, in the course of which he makes various ridiculous
blunders, until he ends by discovering that he is the son of a mere
country clown; but by that time he has had so many mortifications, that
he thinks himself fortunate to find food and shelter with his father.”
“Very good,” said M. Goefle, “we will make him an epicure, and the son
of a cook or confectioner.”
“Exactly the thing. That’s the idea. Well, shall we begin?”
“Do you write, if you can do it legibly. My writing can hardly be read.
My hand can’t keep up with the flow of my ideas, and I scratch away
like a cat. The deuce--what a good hand! But what are you doing?”
“Putting down the _dramatis personæ_.”
“Yes, I see that; but you have written in the first act: _Stentarello
in swaddling clothes?_”
“That is my idea. I am tired of making my poor Stentarello repeat the
story of being let down by a cord out of a window into a boat. If you
agree, I will paint that scene instead.”
“Paint it? But how the devil will you do it?”
“I have an old castle amongst my scenery here.”
“What good will that do?”
“I will transform it into Stollborg. We will give it another name, but
I will use the same romantic view that struck me so forcibly on the
lake at sunset, and of which I made a sketch.”
“You are going to paint?”
“Yes; while you write, whether well or ill, it makes no difference; I
have deciphered such quantities of hieroglyphics with my poor Goffredi!
Remember, we have very little time. I have whatever is necessary to
change my scenes for the requirements of any special occasion. A little
dissolved glue in a tin box, and a few bags of powdered paint of
different colors, are enough. The canvas is no larger than the back of
my theatre, and the colors dry in five minutes. That will be about as
much time as I shall need to introduce a window into my square tower.
See, Monsieur Goefle, in the first place I render it practicable by
making a slit in the canvas with my shears, and then I warm my glue
on the stove. With this charcoal I sketch that row of great boulders.
Some of them hang over--I studied them carefully, for it is a wonderful
group. I give the tone of ice to this foreground--oh no, it must be
water, since we are to have a boat--”
“Where will you get it?”
“In the property-box there. Don’t you suppose I have a boat? There are
ships, too, and carriages, and carts, and all kinds of animals. I
could not get along at all without that collection of profiles that are
necessary in all my pieces, and which take up very little room. Another
idea, M. Goefle: I will put the boat in that vault under the boulders.”
“What for?”
“Why, because it will give us a splendid effect! We are to have a very
mysterious birth for our infant, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“Environed with perils?”
“Necessarily.”
“A natural child?”
“As you please about that.”
“A jealous husband? No, no adulterers! If this does really happen to be
my own story, I should prefer not to be the fruit of an unlawful love.
My mother--poor woman, I have perhaps nothing with which to reproach
her--is saving me from the vengeance of some brother or savage uncle,
capable of killing me in order to hide a discreditable or clandestine
marriage.”
“Very good; I’ll be the Spanish nobleman--some implacable uncle who is
trying to kill the child! The innocent creature is concealed in the
bottom of the lake, at the risk of a little drowning, after having been
thrown out of the window, to save it from all danger.”
“Oh, no, no, M. Goefle! you are altogether too fantastic! That is not
my style at all. I always maintain a certain verisimilitude, even
in romancing, for you can neither make people laugh nor cry with
impossible situations. No, no, we must have some regular assassins,
as ugly and grotesque as they can be made. While they are standing
guard on top of the boulders, watching the window, the boat, which
fortunately has already stealthily received its precious charge--that’s
the regular style--glides noiselessly along beneath the rocks, under
the very feet of the unsuspecting watch. The audience is affected,
and all the more because it is laughing at the same time at the faces
of the assassins--people like extremely to laugh and cry at the
same time--and the curtain falls on the first act, amid thunders of
applause!”
“Excellent, excellent!” said M. Goefle; “but, while you are moving the
boat, will there be no person at the window?”
“Certainly. Have I not two hands? With the left I propel the skiff
over the limpid waves, and with the right I hold up at the window
the faithful waiting-woman, who has lowered down the basket, and who
lifts towards heaven her pretty little wooden arms in an attitude of
supplication, and prays in a sweet voice, ‘Divine Providence! watch
over the child of mystery!’”
“Yes, but the mother; is she not to be seen?”
“No, that would not be the correct thing.”
“And the father?”
“The father is in Palestine. That is the place where we always send the
people we don’t know what to do with.”
“That will do very well; but if there are to be assassins, a haughty
Castilian uncle, and a faithful waiting-woman, Stentarello must belong
to a noble family.”
“The devil! yes; how shall we arrange that?”
“It is perfectly easy. The child whom we lower from the window is the
young Alonzo, son of the duchess. Stentarello is the son of his grace’s
pastry-cook.”
“But what is the pastry-cook to do?”
“I don’t know. It’s your business to find that out. If you keep on
painting you won’t help me at all.”
“But only see, M. Goefle, how beautifully my sky is coming out!”
“Too much so; it is too prominent.”
“You are right, so it is! What an eye you have, M. Goefle! I must bring
up the color of my donjon, then, a little.”
“That will do very well. That rosy sky is just about right now, and
gives a very good idea of the brilliant cloud effects that we have
here. But that is not a Spanish sky, is it?”
“Well, why not lay the scene in Sweden?”
“Oh dear me, no! Don’t you see that as we have arranged the play,
particularly with that view of Stollborg that you have been painting,
a certain comparison might be suggested--if you should give your
imagination free play?”
“With the story of the Baroness de Waldemora?”
“Might there not? In reality there would be no sort of similarity,
since she had no child. But there are persons who might suppose that we
were representing the pretended captivity of the _Gray Lady_. No,
Christian, lay the scene in Spain; it will do much better.”
“Spain be it, then! Well, the pastry-cook has a son, just born, who
is to grow up into the illustrious Stentarello. Now, the cook of the
chateau, who has sent to this pastry-cook by order of the baron--”
“The baron?”
“That is your fault, you put the baron into my head by talking of your
possible comparisons. Our traitor must be called Don Diego, or Don
Sancho.”
“With all my heart. Now, the baron’s cook--There! I am as bad as
you!--Don Sancho’s, I mean--what did he send to the pastry-cook?”
“A magnificent pie in a basket, to be baked.”
“I see, I see! He had placed this basket in the boat. The boatman,
employed to carry off and preserve the Child of Mystery, does not
notice it, and thus carries away two baskets; then he makes a mistake,
and puts the pie out to nurse, and gives the pastry-cook the baby to
bake.”
“So the good pastry-cook brings up both the children, or, rather, he
mistakes and brings up the child of the duchess. Thus there arise
endless entanglements, and we can go forward with confidence to our
denouement. Courage, M. Goefle! the painting is done, and now for the
pen again. Let us arrange the scenes. Scene First: The cook, solus.”
“Wait, Christian! Why not have the child quietly carried down by a
staircase?”
“True, particularly as Stollborg has a secret staircase, but it was
watched by the assassins.”
“Were they incorruptible?”
“No, but the duchess is very short of money, while the traitor has his
pockets full.”
“Why don’t he go himself to the tower where his victim is imprisoned,
and throw the child out of the window, without so much ceremony?”
“I really don’t know. We must make it out that the child is not yet
born, and that they are waiting for the fatal moment.”
“That will do very well! The child, then, must be born at the very
moment that Don Sancho enters the donjon and ascends the stairs.
Paquito, the waiting-woman, lowers down the infant that has just seen
the light. But tell me, is the child to be visible?”
“Certainly. I am going to paint it in its cradle. There’s a string for
the rope. All those things are cut out in profile; they are to be seen
from a distance.”
“So the traitor, to his great disappointment, finds the bird flown.
What does he do? Shall we make him fall out of the window and break his
skull on the rocks?”
“Oh no! Keep that for the catastrophe of the piece; it’s a capital one.”
“Very well then, in his rage he kills his unhappy niece. A cry is
heard, and the murderer appears at the window, exclaiming: ‘My honor is
avenged!’--”
“His honor! I would rather have him say: ‘My fortune is made!’”
“Why?”
“Because he is the heir of the duchess. We must not make him a
scoundrel by halves, since we are to fracture his skull for him at the
end.”
“That is certainly very logical, but--”
“But what?”
“Why, that would be the exact history of Baron Olaus, as his enemies
relate it. A female relative imprisoned, who disappears--”
“What difference does it make, as long as you are sure that the story
is not true?”
“I am as sure as it is possible to be; and yet--do you know, with your
mysterious voice, your idea of a prisoner in the vaults down below,
your explanation of my last night’s vision, and your verses from the
Bible, you have made me a perfect dreamer; my mind is filled with all
sorts of strange notions.”
“But as there is every reason to believe that these notions are nothing
more than the work of our own imaginations, we shall run no risk of
offending any one. And besides, M. Goefle, even if, under my mask and
with my assumed name of Christian Waldo, I should awaken unpleasant
memories in the baron’s mind, please to tell me what difference
that will make to me? or to you either, since you will be perfectly
incognito as well as myself--”
“But it will be easy for the baron to have me watched and
discovered;--he has only to give orders to some of those rascally
servants of his--”
“Oh, if you are to be exposed to any real danger, let us give it up at
once; but in that case we must choose another subject immediately.”
M. Goefle was silent, and absorbed in thought for some moments, greatly
to the annoyance of the impatient Christian, who saw with anxiety
the steady advance of the hands of the clock. At last, the advocate,
striking his forehead, and jumping up with a certain nervous excitement
of manner, cried out, as he began to pace rapidly up and down the room:
“Well, well! Who can say that I am not shrinking from the pursuit
of the real truth? Shall I be a mere cowardly courtier of this
problematical being? Is it not my duty to satisfy myself once for all?
Shall I let it be said that an adventurer--let me rather say a good and
handsome child of fortune, who most surely deserves a better fate--that
he, in his heedless career, is courageous enough to defy a powerful
enemy, while I, dedicated by my very office to the service of the
truth, the appointed defender of human and divine justice, allow myself
to be lulled to sleep by a selfish indolence, not far removed from
cowardice? Christian,” added M. Goefle, resuming his seat, but still
with much excitement of manner, “go on to the second act! Let us make a
terrible thing of it! Let your marionettes cover themselves with glory!
They shall be real persons, living beings, instruments of destiny,
like the players in the tragedy of Hamlet, who terrify and make pale
the triumphant criminal, who is finally unmasked. Come, to work!
Suppose--suppose all the crimes which are charged against the baron;
that he poisoned his father, assassinated his brother, and starved his
sister-in-law to death.”
“Precisely; in this room, too!” said Christian, who was thinking of
the scenery for his third act. “What a capital scene it will make! We
must make the child--the son of the duchess, of course--come back at
the end of twenty-five years, to search out the truth and punish the
murderer! We can make the marionettes break down the mysterious wall,
and discover there--behind that brick-work--I could very quickly get up
the scenery for that, I should have time enough--”
“Discover what?” asked M. Goefle.
“I don’t know,” replied Christian, suddenly becoming thoughtful, and
even gloomy. “The ideas that occur to me are so terrible, that I must
give up that part of the plot; it takes away all my inspiration; and,
instead of continuing the piece, I should have to go and break down
that wall myself, out of a mere rage of curiosity--”
“Come, come, friend Christian, don’t go crazy! It is quite enough if
I am so; this whole thing is nothing but imagination, and I cannot
conscientiously attach weight to suspicions which perhaps originate
only in an overworked stomach, or a brain restless from inaction. Come,
finish the piece, and let it be inoffensive if it is to be amusing.
For my part, I must do a little work for myself; I have a portfolio of
papers to examine that Stenson gave me, and I must prepare a definite
opinion upon them, for I promised the baron this morning to have it
ready, and he may send for it at any moment.”
Christian accordingly set to work at his drama, and M. Goefle at his
parcel of papers, each at the end of a long table, to the middle of
which they had pushed the breakfast dishes. Ulphilas now entered,
and silently began to rearrange the table. He was in his usual state
of half-conscious drunkenness, and shortly he entered upon a long
discussion with M. Goefle, which Christian neither understood nor
heard, as to the merits of a certain soup of milk, beer and syrup, a
national dish, which M. Goefle wanted for supper, and which Ulphilas
claimed to prepare as skilfully as any man in Sweden. By the promise of
this delicacy he disarmed the anger of the lawyer, who had scolded him
for getting his little valet tipsy. Ulphilas, besides, swore he did not
know what M. Goefle meant, and perhaps in good faith, considering the
steady coolness with which he himself carried all kinds of liquors.
By six o’clock, Christian had completed his task, while M. Goefle, who
seemed restless and agitated, was still at work. As Christian happened
to look towards him, he noticed the fixed and abstracted expression of
his eyes. Supposing that this might be the lawyer’s usual appearance
while at his work, he abstained for a time from interrupting him, but
finally thought it necessary to ask, which he did a little uneasily, if
he would not read the outline of the piece.
“Yes, certainly,” said M. Goefle; “but why not read it over to me?”
“Impossible, M. Goefle. I must select my actors, arrange their costumes
in some sort of harmony, collect my scenes, load my ass, and hurry over
to the new chateau, so as to take possession of the quarters intended
for us, set up the theatre, arrange the lights, etc. I have not a
moment to lose; we must begin at eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock? The devil! What a detestable hour! They don’t have
supper at the chateau until ten o’clock, and pray when shall we have
our supper?”
“Oh, to be sure! The fifth meal of the day!” cried Christian, in
despair, but rapidly continuing his preparations. “For heaven’s sake,
M. Goefle, have your supper now, and be ready an hour from this time!
You can read over the piece while you are eating.”
“Oh, of course! A fine regimen you propose! To eat without an appetite,
and to read in the meanwhile, so as to make it impossible for me to
digest my food.”
“Very well; then let us think no more about it! I’ll try to get along
by myself. I’ll do my best! Pshaw! Some good angel or other will come
to my rescue.”
“No, no!” cried M. Goefle; “by no means! I’ll be the good angel. I
promised you; and I’m a man of my word.”
“No, M. Goefle; I thank you, however, all the same. You are not used to
the business. It will not suit a reasonable man like you to interrupt
your important business to put a fool’s cap on your head! It was
indiscreet in me to think of such a thing.”
“What!” exclaimed M. Goefle. “Pray what do you take me for? A mere
babbler, who makes promises that he knows he can’t keep; or an old
pedant, who don’t know enough to talk good nonsense?”
Christian saw that the best way to keep the lawyer up to the enterprise
was to oppose him, and that the worthy gentleman was really very much
in earnest in his scheme of transforming himself into a merry-andrew,
without any more preparation than Christian himself required. He
continued, therefore, to maintain his show of reluctance as to
accepting his services, and did not leave him until he was almost vexed
at Christian’s doubts, besides being fully resolved, and, indeed,
all on fire to fulfil his engagement; even although he should have
to eat his milk-and-beer soup without an appetite, and no matter how
tremendous the violation of all his customary habits.
Christian had proceeded half way from Stollborg to Waldemora, when
he suddenly found himself face to face with a sort of black phantom,
speeding over the ice with uneven leaps. It required but a moment’s
thought to recognize M. Stangstadius, who, like himself, was carrying
a small dark lantern, and who was evidently preparing to accost him.
Feeling very confident that he would not be recognized by a person so
oblivious of others, he thought it unnecessary to put down his mask, or
to change his voice in answering him.
“Hallo, my friend!” called out the man of science, without even
condescending to look at him; “do you come from Stollborg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see Dr. Goefle there?”
“No, monsieur,” replied Christian, who saw at once how dangerous to his
colleague’s good resolutions the professor’s visit might prove.
“What!” said Stangstadius; “Dr. Goefle not at Stollborg? He told me he
was lodging there.”
“He was,” said Christian, with great coolness, “but he left for
Stockholm two hours ago.”
“Left? Left without waiting for my visit, when I told him this very
morning that I would come and take supper with him at the old tower?
It’s impossible.”
“He must have forgotten it.”
“Forgotten! Forgotten that _I_ was coming to see him. That’s a
likely story, indeed!”
“Well, sir,” said Christian, “you can go over there if you choose. You
will find neither supper nor company.”
“Well, then, I must give it up. But it’s the most extraordinary thing.
That poor Goefle must have gone crazy!”
Turning about, M. Stangstadius walked along by the side of Christian,
who continued on towards the chateau; but in a few seconds the
philosopher, on reflection, changed his purpose, and, talking aloud to
himself after his fashion, said:
“So, Goefle has gone off! Well, he’s a scatter-brained, extravagant
fellow. But there’s that nephew of his--for he has a nephew--a charming
young man and a capital talker. He must have told him that I was
coming, and he no doubt is waiting for me. I must go over; certainly I
must!”
Stopping abruptly, he turned to Christian:
“See here, friend,” he cried, “I have made up my mind to go to
Stollborg after all, and as I have been walking a great deal to-day in
the snow, I am extremely tired. Lend me your pony, will you?”
“It would give me great pleasure to do so, monsieur; but if you are
proposing to go there after M. Goefle’s nephew--”
“Certainly, yes; Christian Goefle, that’s his name. Did you see him?
You are one of the servants at Stollborg, I suppose. Very well, go
back there with me. Give me the beast, walk on ahead, and tell them to
prepare supper. That’s a good idea.”
Thereupon M. Stangstadius, without troubling himself to wait for leave
from Christian, undertook to mount Jean, whom he persisted in taking
for a horse, and whose small stature and quiet pace had impressed him
very favorably. As to his load, he paid no sort of attention to that,
although it was very effectually in his way.
“Let the beast alone, will you!” said Christian, annoyed at his
obstinacy. “M. Goefle’s nephew went away with his uncle, and Stollborg
is shut up like a prison.”
“The young man gone too!” cried Stangstadius, in the greatest
amazement. “_Mon Dieu!_ some great misfortune must have happened
in that family, or both uncle and nephew would never have forgotten my
promise. But they must, anyhow, have left a letter for me, and I’ll go
and get it.”
“They did not leave any letter,” said Christian, bethinking him of a
new expedient; “they directed me to say to some person of the name of
Stangstadius at the new chateau that they had been obliged to go away.
That is why I am going to the new chateau.”
“Person of the name of Stangstadius!” cried the insulted philosopher;
“is that what they said?”
“No, monsieur; that is what I said. I don’t know this M. Stangstadius,
myself.”
“Ah, you said it, did you, you idiot? Person of the name of
Stangstadius, indeed! Don’t know him yourself, you great beast! Good,
by George! I like that! Very well, learn to know me, then. I am the
first naturalist--But what’s the use? Such monstrous ignoramuses as one
finds on this poor earth! Stop your horse, you animal! Did I not tell
you I wanted to ride? I’m tired, I say. Do you suppose I don’t know how
to manage any kind of beast whatever?”
“Come, come, M. Naturalist,” said Christian, with perfect coolness,
although feeling very much annoyed at this interview, which was
delaying him so unexpectedly; “don’t you see that the poor creature is
loaded up to his eyes already?”
“What of that? Unload him, I say! you can come back for your load.”
“Impossible. I can’t spare the time.”
“What! you disobey me? What sort of savage are you? You are the first
Swedish peasant who ever refused to assist Dr. Stangstadius. I will
inform against you, miserable rascal, I give you my word. I’ll complain
of you!”
“To whom? The Baron de Waldemora?”
“No, for he would have you hung; and good enough for you, too. But I am
kind-hearted; I want you to understand that. I am the best man alive,
and I forgive you.”
“Nonsense!” said Christian, who could not help at times diverting
himself a little with the strange persons whom he encountered in his
wandering life. “I don’t know you, and I strongly suspect that you are
not the person you claim to be. You a naturalist! Out upon you! You
can’t even tell a horse from an ass.”
“An ass?” said Stangstadius, diverted at once, fortunately, from his
whim of equitation; “do you pretend to have an ass there?”
He inspected Jean with his lantern; but thanks to Christian’s
solicitude, the animal was so well wrapped up in skins of various
kinds, that it presented a most fantastic appearance.
“An ass? It can’t be! An ass could not live in this latitude. What you,
in your brutal ignorance, call an ass, is nothing more than some kind
of mule at the most! Come, let me see it;--take off those borrowed
skins--”
“Hold, monsieur!” said Christian; “whether Stangstadius or not, you
have tired me out. I can’t talk with you any longer. Good-evening.”
With that, he tickled the legs of the faithful Jean with a switch; the
animal broke into a trot, and the two quickly left the philosopher
behind them. But soon, Christian, who was always good-natured, felt
a sort of remorse for his rudeness. As he reached the edge of the
lake, he looked back, and saw the poor doctor of sciences following on
with much difficulty, and many slips and tumbles. He must really have
been very much fatigued to have been at all conscious of it, for his
identity was concentrated in his brains and in his tongue; and still
more to have confessed it: for he claimed to be the most robust man of
the age.
“If his strength should fail him,” thought Christian, “he might lie
down there on the ice, and, in this region, a moment’s sleep out of
doors on such a night as this would, perhaps, be fatal--particularly to
a feeble being like that. Come, stand still, Jean! wait for me.”
He hastened towards M. Stangstadius, who had, in fact, come to a
halt, and was perhaps revising his determination of going to dine
at Stollborg. At this idea, Christian redoubled his speed; but
Stangstadius, who was not always so brave as he pretended, and who had
conceived strong prejudices against a person so little inclined to bow
down before his greatness as his late companion, instantly suspected
him of the worst designs against his own person; and, recovering his
strength, he set off towards Stollborg as hard as he could go. But this
did not suit Christian at all, and he began to run also, and quickly
came up with him.
“Wretch!” cried the learned man in a broken voice, for his terror and
exhaustion had reached a climax, “you mean to kill me, I know! Yes, my
enemies have hired you to extinguish the very light of the world! Let
me alone, you miserable scoundrel! don’t touch me! Think who it is that
you are about to lay hands on!”
“Come, come! compose yourself, M. Stangstadius,” said Christian,
laughing at his terror; “and have a better appreciation of people who
want to do you a service! Come, get on my back, and be quick about it;
I am all in a perspiration with running after you, and I don’t want to
stay here and take cold.”
Stangstadius complied, though with a good deal of reluctance, but he
was relieved when he saw how easily the powerful young man lifted him,
and carried him ashore. There, Christian placed him on his feet, and
hastened forward, to escape his generosity; for, in his gratitude, the
worthy Stangstadius was rummaging his pockets for a two-sou piece,
convinced that this would be a royal gift for one who had had the
happiness of rendering him a service.