CHRISTIAN left the professor to proceed towards the main entrance
of the chateau, while he himself sought the side door, which in all
feudal manors leads to the courts and outer buildings. Drawing down
his mask, he called a servant, who helped him unload; and then, after
seeing that his ass was suitably accommodated, he ascended a private
staircase leading to the apartment of M. Johan, the major-domo of the
new chateau. The latter did not wait for him to announce himself.
“Ah! Ah! The man in a black mask,” he exclaimed, in a benevolent and
patronizing tone. “So, you are the famous Christian Waldo! Come along,
my good fellow, I’ll take you to your quarters myself, and you can make
all your preparations at your leisure; you have a full hour yet.”
Assistance was now given to transfer Christian’s baggage to the
room which was to serve him as a green-room, and at his request
the keys were put into his hands. Then he shut himself up alone,
and having removed his mask to be more at his ease, set to work to
mount his theatre, though not without some rubbing of his shoulders.
M. Stangstadius was not very heavy, but his deformed body was so
singularly angular, that he felt as if he had been carrying a great
bundle of crooked sticks.
He had been shown into a small saloon, in which there were two doors,
one opening upon a passage leading to the private staircase by which
Christian had just entered, escorted by the affable major-domo, and the
other upon the end of a large and richly-decorated gallery, called the
Hunting-gallery, where Christian had met Margaret the night before.
The theatre was to stand just within the gallery before this door (it
was a large folding-door), and the spectators were to be accommodated
within the gallery itself. Christian, upon measuring the width of the
door-way, found that the theatre would just extend across it; so that
when the whole was in order, he would be perfectly isolated from his
audience, and quite at home in his little saloon. This arrangement,
therefore, was an excellent one for securing his own freedom of
movement, and his incognito, as well as that of M. Goefle.
From the number of arm-chairs and other seats disposed in front of
the theatre, Christian judged by a short estimate, without counting
in detail, that his audience would consist of about a hundred persons
conveniently seated, ladies probably--and of a hundred gentlemen, more
or less of whom would have to stand behind them. The gallery was wide,
and of unusual depth, so that it was, on the whole, the most convenient
place in which Christian had ever exhibited. The vaulted and frescoed
ceiling made its acoustic properties perfect; the chandeliers, which
were already burning, gave an excellent light, and by merely lighting
up the wings of the portable theatre, the dimensions of its little
stage assumed exactly the appearance of depth which it required.
Christian made all his preparations with the most critical care. He
was really fond of his little theatre, and had adapted to it a number
of ingenious contrivances which made it something like a miniature of
a real theatre. He would, in fact, have been successful as a painter
of interiors and of landscape, if the love of the natural sciences had
not occasioned him to confine himself mostly to mere decorative work;
but his natural gifts were so good, that he could scarcely execute
even work intrinsically frivolous, without giving it the distinct
impress of his own graceful and tasteful originality. His little scenes
were accordingly fresh and charming in design, and always produced an
agreeable effect. He took the greatest pains with them, especially
when he was going to exhibit before an intelligent audience; and if
he occasionally felt impatient at having to spend so much time over
such details, he consoled himself by recalling the favorite axiom of
Goffredi: “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing as well as
possible, even if it is only whittling toothpicks.”
Christian, therefore, was completely absorbed in making his
preparations. Having cast a precautionary glance around the deserted
gallery, he set up the frame of his theatre experimentally in the
door-way with all the scenery and lights, and, stepping out into
the audience-room, he seated himself in the best place to judge of
the effect of his perspective, so that he might adjust properly the
entrances and movements of his actors.
The two or three minutes’ rest thus obtained was very welcome to him.
He was more or less hardened to the extremes of all climates, but he
found that in the over-heated rooms of the houses of the north, he
quickly felt fatigued. He had slept the night before only a few hours,
in his arm-chair; and either from the exhausting experiences of the
day, or from his walk on the ice with a professor of geology on his
shoulders, he was overtaken by a sudden and irresistible drowsiness,
and sank into one of those brief naps, in which the transition from the
world of reality to dream-land is so sudden as to be imperceptible. He
seemed to be in a garden, on a warm summer’s day, and to hear the sand
in one of the paths near him crackling under a stealthy tread. Some one
was cautiously approaching; and although he could not see the person,
he felt an intuitive certainty that it was Margaret. He awoke without
being startled, on feeling what seemed to be a breath stirring in his
hair. Quickly recovering himself, he jumped up and found that his mask
had fallen off and lay at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, without
turning round to see who had wakened him, and was startled in good
earnest, when a man’s voice, only too well known to him, remarked:
“It is perfectly useless to hide your face, Christian Waldo; I have
recognized you. You are Christian Goffredi.”
Christian, astonished, turned, and saw standing before him, in
good condition, well-dressed, and fresh shaved, no other than Guido
Massarelli.
“What! Is this you?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here, when you
ought to be dangling at the end of a rope, at the meeting of four
cross-roads, in some wood.”
“I am one of the household,” said Guido, smiling calmly and
disdainfully.
“You one of the baron’s household? Ah, to be sure! It does not surprise
me. After being a swindler, and a highway robber, what remained except
for you to become a lackey?”
“I am not a lackey,” replied Massarelli, with the same composure; “I am
a friend of the family. Quite an intimate friend, Christian, and you
would do well, moreover, to try and be on good terms with me. It would
be the greatest piece of good fortune that could befall you.”
“Master Guido,” said Christian, as he moved his theatre back into the
inner saloon, “it is unnecessary to have an explanation now; but I am
glad to know that you are staying here, where I shall be able to find
you.”
“Is that a threat, Christian?”
“No, it is a promise. I am in your debt, as you know very well, my dear
friend, and as soon as I have paid off my indebtedness here--that will
be done as soon as I have given an exhibition of marionettes an hour
from this time--I shall make it my business to settle my account with
you, by giving you the very best flogging you ever had in your life.”
While speaking, Christian passed back into the green-room, and began
putting out his lights and dropping his curtain. Massarelli followed,
closing the doors of the gallery as he did so; and Christian, whose
back was necessarily turned towards him at that moment, said to himself
that this bandit would be very likely to make use of his advantage to
try and assassinate him. Still, he despised him too much to show any
distrust, and he went on threatening him with a severe chastisement for
his crimes, in a tone as calm as that assumed by the rascal himself.
Fortunately for the imprudent Christian, Guido was by no means a
courageous man, and kept his distance, ready to retreat in case his
adversary should seem disposed to make a present payment on account.
“Come, Christian,” he began again, when he supposed the young man
might have given vent to his first outbreak of resentment, “let us
have a reasonable conversation before proceeding to extremities. I am
perfectly ready to give you satisfaction for all my transactions with
you, and you have no right to insult with idle words a man whom you
know you cannot terrify.”
“What a pitiful fellow you are!” said Christian, beginning to be angry,
and walking straight up to him. “Satisfaction from you, you prince of
cowards? Oh no, Guido! the way to do with a fellow like you is to slap
him in the face, and, if he resists, to beat him like a dog: nobody
ever fights with him; you must know that. So drop your high tone, you
scoundrel, and don’t dare look me in the face! Down with you, on your
knees, before me, or I’ll strike you this very moment!”
Guido, as pale as death, fell on his knees without a word, while great
tears, either of fear, or shame, or rage, rolled down his cheeks.
“Very good,” said Christian, half in disgust and half in pity; “now get
up and go. I pardon you, but never voluntarily cross my path again; and
if we chance to meet, no matter where, don’t venture to speak to me.
For me, you are dead. Out with you, lackey! This room is mine for two
or three hours.”
“Christian,” cried Guido, rising, and speaking with a vehemence
affected or sincere, as the case may be, “hear me for only five
minutes.”
“No.”
“Christian, listen to me!” persisted the bandit, stepping before the
door of the staircase, which Christian was about to throw open; “I have
something of importance to tell you--something upon which your fortune
and your life depend.”
“My fortune,” said Christian, laughing contemptuously, “went into your
pocket, you thief! It was so little that I don’t care much about it,
either way. And as to my life, try and take it, if you think best.”
“It has been in my hands, Christian,” said Guido, who, as soon as he
was assured of his enemy’s generosity, had recovered all his assurance;
“possibly it may be so again. You had outraged me, and I was strongly
tempted by opportunity to revenge myself; but I could not forget that I
had once loved you; and even now, in spite of your additional insults,
it only depends upon you to have me love you as much as ever.”
“Many thanks,” replied Christian, shrugging his shoulders; “come, away
with you! I have no time to listen to your pathetic drivelling; I have
known it by heart this long time.”
“I’m not so guilty as you think, Christian. When I robbed you in the
Carpathians it was out of my power to do otherwise.”
“That is just what everybody says who has surrendered himself to the
devil.”
“I had surrendered myself to the devil, it is very true, for I was
the chief of a band of robbers. My comrades had marked you out for a
victim; their eyes were upon us, and, if I had not taken good care to
drug you, so as to prevent a useless resistance, they would have killed
you.”
“Then I am under obligations to you. Is that what you are driving at?”
“That is it, exactly. I am now in a fair way to make my fortune. Even
to-morrow I shall be in a position to restore all that I took from
you--forced to do so by men whom I could not control as I wished. A few
days later they robbed me myself, and left me in exactly the same case
in which you were left.”
“They did quite right. You richly deserved it.”
“Christian, do you remember the amount that was taken from you?”
“Perfectly.”
“And shall you be at Stollborg to-morrow?”
“I don’t know. It does not concern you, either.”
“As you please. But to-morrow I shall bring you the money.”
“Spare yourself the trouble. I am at home at Stollborg, and _I do not
receive_.”
“But yet--”
“Silence! I have heard you long enough.”
“But if I bring you the money--”
“The same sum that you took from me? No, I presume not! You drank that
out a long time ago. Well, then, as the money you speak of can’t be the
same, and as it must be the proceeds of some theft, or of something
worse, if possible, I don’t want it. Please to take that for granted,
and don’t trouble yourself with any more talk about restitution. I am
not fool enough to believe you, and if I did, I should promise you just
as faithfully as I now do, to throw the price of your vile exploits
into your face.”
Christian was on the point of thrusting Guido out, but the latter
yielded at last, and went. The exhibitor was about to close the door
again, when M. Goefle, all covered up in furs, appeared, ascending the
stairs, manuscript in hand. The lawyer had either eaten very quickly,
or not at all; he had devoured the play, which he rapidly mastered,
and, fearing that he would not have time enough to rehearse, had
hurried over from Stollborg on foot, by the light of the stars. He had
concealed his face and disguised his voice, in order to inquire for
Christian Waldo’s room; and, in short, had used all the precautions
of a young lover stealing to a mysterious rendezvous. His head, for
the present, was full of nothing but the burattini; he had forgotten
the mysteries of Stollborg as completely as if he had never troubled
himself on the subject. However, as he was running lightly up the
stairs, he found himself, for the second time that day, obliged to pass
a man of evil countenance, who was rapidly descending. This second
meeting brought back to his mind the strange fancies in which he had
been indulging about Baron Olaus, Stenson, and the deceased Hilda.
“Stay,” he said to Christian, who gayly congratulated him on his zeal;
“look at that man who just passed me, and who is now going along the
corridor below. Did he come from this room? Is he a servant of the
baron’s? Do you know him?”
“I know him a great deal too well, and I was just under the necessity
of telling him my opinion of him,” said Christian. “That man--whether
a servant or not--is the very Guido Massarelli whose adventures I told
you something about this morning, in relating my story.”
“You don’t say so! Well, that is a strange encounter, on my word!”
cried M. Goefle; “and it may, perhaps, give you some trouble. You are
enemies, and, if you have treated him as he deserves, he will injure
you as much as possible.”
“How can he injure me? He is such a coward! I made him go down on his
knees to me.”
“In that case--well, I don’t know what he will do, but it is a fact
that he has discovered some important secret.”
“A secret concerning me?”
“No,” said M. Goefle, who was on the point of speaking freely, when he
remembered his resolution not to reveal anything relating to Stenson;
“but, at any rate, you are hiding Christian Goffredi under the mask of
Christian Waldo, and he will betray you.”
“What if he does? I have not dishonored the name of Goffredi, and I
hope the time will come when my singular adventures will redound to
my honor, rather than to my discredit. Pray what have I to fear from
any one’s opinion? Am I either idle or debauched? I despise all the
Massarellis in the world! Have I not already made even a chivalric
reputation in Sweden and elsewhere, under my buffoon’s mask? More good
actions are attributed to me, indeed, than I have performed, and I have
become a sort of hero of romance. Was I not last night the Prince Royal
of Sweden? And if this reputation of mine should become too fantastic,
cannot I change my name whenever I shall think proper, and adopt a
serious profession? It is important upon your account (and that is the
only reason I give it a thought, M. Goefle) to prevent your pretended
nephew, who attended the ball last night, from being recognized under
the mask of Christian Waldo; but this is the only thing we need trouble
ourselves about. Now Massarelli was not here last night, I am sure
of it, and he knows nothing about that adventure; otherwise I should
have heard of it. However, in any event, you will only need to repeat
what is the truth, and adhere to it, that you have never had either
nephew or natural child, and that you are in no way responsible for the
practical jokes of a professional jester like Christian Waldo.”
“After all, I am as indifferent upon the subject as yourself,” replied
M. Goefle, taking off his wig, and covering his head with a light black
cap which Christian gave him; “do you suppose I am such a coward as to
be afraid of the ogre of this castle? Christian, I am about to make my
first appearance as an exhibitor of marionettes. Well, if you should
ever be reproached with having earned your living as a showman, so
as to devote yourself to science, you can reply that you knew a man
holding an honorable position in a dignified profession, who became
your fellow-performer for his own amusement.”
“Or rather out of kindness to me, Monsieur Goefle.”
“Kindness for you, if you choose, for I really like you; but it would
be wrong to suppose that I feel any distaste for this performance. On
the contrary, it seems to me that it will be immensely diverting. In
the first place the piece is charming, comic to the highest degree, and
at the same time pathetic, in certain parts. You showed your wisdom in
avoiding all allusions in the present arrangement. Come, Christian, let
us rehearse! We haven’t more than half an hour. Let’s be quick! Are we
all safe here? Can no one either hear us or see us?”
Christian had some difficulty in preventing M. Goefle from fatiguing
his voice and exhausting himself in the rehearsal. The successive
scenes were briefly indicated upon the schedule, and two or three
questions and replies devoted to each of them were quite sufficient
to give full command of the principal situations, which were to be
the basis of the public improvisation. What was most important was
to lay the marionettes in the proper order on the platform behind the
scenes arranged for the purpose, so as to find them without confusion,
when they should be required on the stage; to bring them forward
correctly in their turns; and to have a good understanding about their
entries and exits, and the main tenor of the story. The dialogue
itself they left to the inspiration of the moment. M. Goefle was the
most delightful and intelligent associate Christian had ever had. He
was quite electrified by the collision of their wits, and, when eight
o’clock struck, he was in a brilliant flow of spirits, such as he had
not experienced since playing with Massarelli, then so agreeable and
attractive. That distant and now sadly faded remembrance caused him
a moment’s melancholy, which, however, he quickly shook off as he
remarked to M. Goefle:
“There, I hear them coming into the gallery. Be all ready, my dear
comrade, and good luck to us!”
At this moment some one knocked at the further door, and the voice of
Johan, the major-domo, asked for Christian Waldo.
“I beg pardon,” called out Christian, “but you can’t come in now. Speak
through the door; I can hear.”
Johan answered that Christian was to be in readiness to open the
performance; and that three raps on the door would notify him when to
begin. At that signal the door would be opened to allow the theatre to
be set forward.
This being agreed upon, still another quarter of an hour had to pass
before the ladies could all be suited with seats, where their dresses
and graces could be properly displayed, and where each should be near
the cavalier most agreeable to herself, or to whom she most wished to
be agreeable. Christian, who was used to such delays, busied himself
with arranging the refreshments that he had found in the little saloon
upon a table, where it would be conveniently at hand, in case he or his
companion should want to clear their voices between the acts. When he
had done this, both he and M. Goefle stepped into the theatre, which
was covered in with curtains securely fastened in front and at the
sides. The back, which was movable, was set far enough to the rear to
allow room for several side-scenes.
The two operators now awaited the three raps, Christian calmly, M.
Goefle with an almost feverish impatience, which he expressed openly.
“What, do you feel vexed?” said Christian. “Well, that shows that you
are excited; it is a good sign. You will be brilliant.”
“I hope so,” replied the lawyer; “though, to tell you the truth, it
seems to me just now as if I should not be able to say a single word,
and should break down. That would be extremely agreeable; it makes me
dizzy to think of it. No case that I ever argued before the most august
assembly, no question involving the life and honor of a client, or my
own success, ever agitated my mind and strained my nerves as this farce
is doing. Will those chatterboxes of women that I hear cackling through
the doors never be quiet? Do they want to smother us in this box? I’ll
break out and abuse them if this continues.”
Finally the three blows were struck. Two footmen, stationed in the
gallery, opened simultaneously the two sides of the door, and the
little theatre was seen to move forward lightly, as if of its own
accord, and to take its place before the door-way, which it entirely
filled. Four musicians, whom Christian had stipulated for, played
a brief quartette in the Italian style. The curtain rose, and the
applause which was given to the scenery afforded the operators time to
place their marionettes in position for appearing upon the stage.
Christian never began his performances without inspecting his audience
through a little peep-hole, which he had contrived for the purpose. The
first person he saw happened to be the very one he was looking for.
Margaret was seated next Olga, in the front row. She was in a delicious
toilet, and looked positively ravishing. Christian next noticed the
baron, who was in the front row of the gentlemen’s seats, behind those
of the ladies, and whose lofty stature made him at once conspicuous.
He was even paler, if possible, than the evening before. Massarelli
did not seem to be present, but Christian saw with pleasure Major
Larrson, Lieutenant Erwin Osburn, and the other young officers who, on
the previous evening, during the ball and after it, had shown him such
cordial sympathy, and whose ruddy countenances, already lighted up with
the expectation of pleasure, were full of kindly interest. At the same
time, Christian could hear them praising the scene.
“Why, that is Stollborg!” said several voices.
“True,” said Baron Olaus, in his metallic voice, “I really believe that
they have tried to represent old Stollborg.”
As for M. Goefle, he could neither hear nor see; he was for the moment
horribly discomposed. To give him time to recover himself, Christian
began with a scene between two actors, which he played alone. His voice
adapted itself with singular ease to the different utterances of the
beings he was representing; and not only did he vary his intonations,
he made each character, at the same time, use just the language which
was best suited to its part and position in the little comedy. From the
very outset the audience were charmed with his natural and truthful
style. M. Goefle, whose duty it was for the moment to represent an
old man, very soon came in with his part. At first he did not succeed
very well in disguising his voice, but the audience were so far
from suspecting his presence, and were so thoroughly convinced that
Christian did all the talking, that there was the greatest amazement at
the infinite resources of the operator.
“Wouldn’t you be willing to swear,” said Larrson, “that there were a
dozen persons in there?”
“There must be four, at least,” said the lieutenant.
“No,” replied the major, “there are only two, the master and his
assistant. But the assistant is a mere brute, who very seldom speaks,
and who has not opened his mouth, so far.”
“But hark! there are two persons speaking. I distinctly hear two
different voices.”
“Pure delusion!” replied the enthusiastic Larrson; “it is Christian
Waldo all alone. He can represent two or three or four persons all at
the same time, and more too, perhaps; who knows? He is the very devil.
But attend to the piece; it is wonderfully entertaining. One would like
to commit his plays to memory, so as to write them out.”
In spite of all this praise, however, we shall not undertake to
enter into the details of this play for the reader’s benefit. Such
fugitive compositions are like all oral or musical improvisations;
it is a mistake to suppose that they would appear so well if
transcribed and preserved. Their unexpectedness is a chief part of
their attractiveness, and it is just because we can only recall them
indistinctly, and that the imagination, therefore, has full opportunity
to embellish them, that we remember them as so charming. Whatever
Christian produced in these extempore efforts had always spirit,
character, and taste. And as for the imperfections inseparable from an
impromptu recitation, the rapid movement of the piece, and the artist’s
adroitness in introducing new characters as soon as he found himself
growing weary of those already upon the stage, caused them to be
entirely overlooked.
As for M. Goefle, his genuine natural eloquence, his ready wit, when
excited, and extensive and varied information, made it very easy for
him to do his part, when he had once recovered from his fright. His
promptness in seizing any fancy of his interlocutor, and making the
most of it, gave rise to the most entertaining digressions; and the
usual amazement at the variety and knowledge displayed in Waldo’s
dialogue, was greater than ever.
Although declining to enter into the particulars of Christian’s comedy,
we must at least explain how it was he had changed the first act; with
which, in its original form, M. Goefle, it will be remembered, had been
so deeply impressed.
Restrained by the fear of really compromising the advocate by some
unintentional allusion, he had made the villain of the piece a comic
character, a sort of Cassandre, deceived by his ward, and constantly
seeking the _corpus delicti_--the Child of Mystery--but without
any criminal designs against him. Christian was very much surprised,
therefore, as he began the last scene of the first act, to hear a
movement in the audience, as if a sort of shudder had passed over it,
and a general whispering, which, to his practised ear, skilled in
detecting the sentiments of his spectators, even while he himself was
speaking, seemed to express blame rather than praise.
“What can have happened?” he asked himself.
Glancing at M. Goefle, he saw that he looked troubled, and was tapping
the floor with one foot, as if vexed, while he moved his marionette
nervously about upon the stage.
Christian, imagining that he had forgotten some part of the plot,
hastened to relieve him by bringing forward the boatman, and, hurrying
up the conclusion of the act, he lowered the curtain. This was followed
neither by applause nor hisses, but there was a general rush in the
audience, as if they were hurrying out, to avoid hearing anything
further. Peeping through his eye-hole, before withdrawing the theatre
behind the door for the intermission, he saw, in fact, that his whole
audience, although not yet dispersed, had risen; and, with their backs
turned towards the theatre, were discussing some event in low voices.
The only words he could distinguish were: “_Gone out! He has gone
out!_” And glancing round the room to see who could be meant, he saw
that the baron was no longer in the gallery.
“Come,” said M. Goefle, nudging him with his elbow, “let’s move back
into the green-room. Why are you waiting? It’s the intermission.”
The theatre, therefore, rolled back within the saloon, the doors were
closed; and as he rapidly shifted his scenes for the second act,
Christian asked M. Goefle if he had noticed anything in particular.
“The deuce!” said the lawyer, with a good deal of excitement; “I have
done it finely this time! What do you say?”
“Your performance? It was excellent, M. Goefle.”
“I was stupid, crazy! It is inconceivable that a man accustomed to
speak in public on the most delicate subjects, and about the most
involved and doubtful cases, should have been overtaken by such an
accident! Can you understand it?”
“But what accident, for heaven’s sake, Monsieur Goefle?”
“What, are you deaf? Did you not hear me make three most frightful
blunders?”
“Pshaw! I probably made a hundred; it happens every day. Nobody notices
them.”
“You think so? Nobody notices them? I’ll wager something that the baron
left the room before we were through.”
“He did, that’s the fact! Is he so very critical that a careless
connective or an ill-chosen word--”
“What! A thousand devils! That is not the matter at all! I would rather
have had my tongue cut out than to have said what I did. While you were
stooping down to bring the boat under the rocks, and I was making the
men on guard talk, only imagine that I said three times, ‘the baron,’
instead of ‘Don Sancho’! I did, three times! Once by mere oversight,
again when I had noticed it, and meant to correct myself; and a third
time--I never heard of such a thing, Christian--to say exactly the very
word that one intends not to say! There was some fatality about it;
I am almost ready to believe, as our peasants do, that evil spirits
intermeddle with our doings!”
“It is very curious, really,” said Christian, “but it might have
happened to any one. Why are you so much annoyed about it, M. Goefle?
The baron can never suspect that it was done on purpose. And besides,
is he the only baron in the world? Are there not a dozen of them,
perhaps, in the very audience before us? Come, let us attend to the
second act; time is passing, and they may call for us at any moment.”
“If they don’t send to countermand the performance. There, some one is
knocking!”
“It is the major-domo again. Step in under the frame, M. Goefle; I will
put on my mask and open the door; he must see what is going on.”
When M. Goefle was out of sight, and Christian masked, the door was
opened to M. Johan.
“What is the matter?” asked Christian, going promptly to the point.
“Shall we go on?”
“Why not, M. Waldo?” said the major-domo.
“I fancied that his lordship was indisposed.”
“Oh, he often suffers from nervousness, when he remains long in one
place. It is nothing, however. He has just sent me to tell you that
you are to go on whether he returns or not; he would regret to have
the company disappointed of their entertainment. But what an odd idea
that was of yours, M. Christian, to represent our old Stollborg in your
theatre!”
“I hoped it might please his lordship the baron,” said Christian, with
effrontery. “Was I mistaken?”
“His lordship is enchanted with the idea; he said over and over,
‘Capital! How good it is! You would think it was the old donjon
itself.’”
“I’m very glad indeed,” returned Christian; “in that case we’ll
continue. Your servant, M. Major-domo! Come, M. Goefle, take courage,”
he said, when Johan had gone; “you see it’s all correct, and that we
have been only dreaming all day. Now I wager that the baron is the best
fellow in the world, you will see that he will be converted, and we
shall have to canonize him.”
The baron concluded to return, after all, and the second act, which
was short and lively, seemed to amuse him extremely. Don Sancho did
not appear. M. Goefle made no more slips of the tongue, and succeeded
so well in disguising his voice, that nobody suspected his presence.
In the next intermission he drank sundry glasses of port to keep up
his spirits, and during the third and last act, which was even more
successful than the two preceding ones, he was, perhaps, a little
elevated.
The comic scenes in which Stentarello entertained the public, Christian
varied with a sentimental by-plot between other characters. In the
last act, Alonzo, the child of the lake, discovered that Rosita, the
daughter of the worthy couple who had adopted and brought him up, was
not his sister, whereupon he avowed his love to her. This well-known
dramatic situation is always a delicate one to manage. There is
something unwelcome in seeing a brother pass suddenly from a sacred
friendship to a passion which, in spite of the change of circumstances,
persists, as it were, in seeming unholy. This young girl and Alonzo
were the only two of his characters whom Christian had not burlesqued.
He had represented the latter as a good-hearted young man, with views
and pursuits like his own. The audience felt a sympathy for his
generous and adventurous qualities, and the ladies, quite forgetting
that it was only a marionette which they beheld, were charmed with the
pleasant voice which discoursed to them of love with a certain chaste
tenderness, and in a frank tone, far different from the mannerisms of
the fashionable French pastorals of the day.
Christian was familiar with Marivaux, whose works present such a
striking union of elaborate thought, with simplicity of feeling and
passionate emotion. He had been deeply penetrated with all that is
true and great in this charming genius, and he really excelled in
representing the part of a lover. The scene was too short. It was
encored vehemently, and Christian, yielding to the wish of the public,
picked up Alonzo again--he had already pulled him off his fingers--and
brought him back upon the stage in a manner at once ingenious and
natural.
“Did you call me?” he said to the young girl, and this simple phrase
was uttered with an expression so timid, so profoundly loving, and so
heart-felt, that Margaret hid her face behind her hand, to conceal a
deep blush.
The fact is, that the young girl was passing through a strange
experience. Out of all the audience, she alone had recognized in
the voice of Alonzo that of Christian Goefle; perhaps because she
alone had conversed with him sufficiently to remember his voice
distinctly. It is true that Christian Waldo made his young lover talk
in a higher key than his own natural intonation, but still there
were certain inflections and vibrations that startled Margaret every
moment. When the love scene came, she was absolutely certain; and yet
Christian Goefle had not said a single word of love to her. She kept
her thoughts to herself, however; and when Olga, who was cold and
sarcastic, nudged her with her elbow, and asked if she was crying, the
innocent child replied with artless hypocrisy that she had caught a bad
cold, and was trying to smother her cough.
As for Olga, she, too, was dissimulating, though in a very different
way. When the play was over, she pretended to feel a great contempt
for the little gentleman, who was such a “bashful lover,” and yet her
heart had been beating violently. In fact, there are some Russian women
who are habitually heartless and calculating, but who, nevertheless,
have very ardent passions. Olga had resolutely committed herself to an
interested marriage; and yet, in spite of herself, she could not help
feeling a secret horror of the baron, ever since she had been engaged
to him. When he spoke to her after the play, his harsh voice and icy
look gave her a chill, and she remembered without, or even against her
intention, the soft tones and vivid expressions of Christian Waldo.
Upon his side, the baron seemed to be in excellent humor. The
unfortunate Don Sancho, who was to have made his appearance again
towards the close of the piece, had prudently been suppressed by
M. Goefle. Between the first and second acts, he and Christian had
agreed together as to this modification. They arranged to make Rosita
the daughter of Don Sancho, who was supposed to have died during the
intermission. She turned out to be the heiress of his vast fortune,
and marries Alonzo at the end of the play, so as to make up for the
spoliation which he had suffered. Adventures, blunders, romantic
incidents, and comic scenes, and most of all Stentarello, with his
ingenuous selfishness and his cowardice, filled out the slender
framework of the little comedy, which was received with general
enthusiasm, notwithstanding the dissent of M. Stangstadius, who did
not listen to a single word, and pooh-poohed everything from beginning
to end. He was quite out of patience to think that anybody could be
interested in a frivolous affair in which there was nothing scientific.
Meanwhile, M. Goefle had thrown himself into an arm-chair in the
green-room, where he was shut up with Christian; and while the latter,
always active and industrious, busied himself with taking down,
arranging, and folding all the different parts and implements of his
theatre--packing the dramatis personæ into their box, and folding the
theatre itself into one bundle, which, although heavy, could easily be
carried--the advocate wiped the perspiration from his forehead, sipped
his Spanish wine, and, in short, gave himself up, heart and soul, to
enjoyment and relaxation, as he was in the habit of doing at home
when he took off his professional robe and cap, to retire, as he was
accustomed to phrase it, into the bosom of private life.
This charming man had experienced few disappointments in public life,
and few private troubles. What he had really felt the want of, since
he had settled down to the sober, tranquil career of a middle-aged
man, was novelty, the element of adventure. This he pretended to hate,
and thought he did hate it; and yet he suffered from the monotony of
his existence, because he possessed a vivid imagination, and great
versatility of talent. Naturally, therefore, at the present moment, he
was in unusually high spirits, without knowing why. Although fatigued,
and bathed in perspiration, he was sorry that the play was over; for at
least ten additional acts, ready for performance, were floating in his
mind.
“I ought to be ashamed of myself,” he said; “here am I resting, while
you are hard at work setting things to rights. Cannot I help you?”
“No, no, M. Goefle, you would not know how. Besides, I have done
already. Are you still too warm to think of walking back to Stollborg?”
“To Stollborg! Must we return there, and go off stupidly to bed,
excited as we are?”
“Why, as to that, M. Goefle, it rests with you to step out of the
door at the foot of this side stairway, and then go round to the main
entrance and take supper (they have just rung the bell), and enjoy the
amusements which, I presume, have been prepared for the remainder of
the evening. But my part is played. Since you have denied your own
blood, since I can no longer appear by your side under the name of
Christian Goefle, I must go and take something or other to eat, and
study a little mineralogy until I grow sleepy.”
“Sure enough, my poor boy, you must be tired.”
“I was before we began; now I am excited, just as you are, M. Goefle.
In improvising, one is always most wound up when it is time to stop.
Exactly when the curtain falls is just the right time to begin; you are
full of fire, of feeling, of wit.”
“Very true, and I’ll stay with you for that reason, for you would be
uncomfortable enough by yourself. I understand all about that state of
mind. It is just so when one has concluded an argument; but this is
even more stimulating. I would like myself to do I don’t know what,
this very minute: recite a tragedy, compose a poem, set the house on
fire, get drunk--anything to satisfy this craving of the mind after
something out of the ordinary line.”
“Take care, M. Goefle,” said Christian, laughing, “the last may happen
to you.”
“To me? Never! never! I am sorry to say that I am sober to
excess--stupidly so, in fact.”
“But see there--that bottle is half empty!”
“Half a bottle of port for two--there is nothing scandalous in that, I
hope?”
“I beg your pardon, but I haven’t touched it. I drank nothing but
lemonade.”
“If that is so,” said M. Goefle, pushing away the glass he was about
to fill, “hence, perfidious beverage! To get tipsy alone is the most
melancholy business in the world. Will you come over to Stollborg and
drink with me? Or--stay, when I was here this morning I heard somebody
saying that there was to be a race by torchlight on the lake to-night,
unless there should be more snow; but, on the contrary, the weather
was magnificent when I came over. Let us join the party. Every one
is privileged, you know, to appear disguised during the Christmas
entertainments, and faith! I remember this moment that Countess Elveda
said something about a masquerade.”
“A good idea,” said Christian, “and exactly in my line--the man in the
mask! But what shall we do for costumes? I have a hundred or more there
in my box, but neither of us could very well bring himself down to the
size of a marionette.”
“Oh, perhaps we can find something over at Stollborg.”
“Not in my wardrobe then, most assuredly.”
“Well, in mine, perhaps. If we can’t do anything else, we can put on
our clothes wrong side out. But a little imagination--”
“Very well! Go on, then, M. Goefle, I will follow you. I have still
to load up Jean and receive my money. Take this mask; I have another.
Possibly there may be some inquisitive fellows on the stairs.”
“Or some inquisitive ladies--on your account. Be quick, Christian! I’ll
go on in advance.”
And M. Goefle, as springy and active as if but twenty years old,
darted down stairs, pushing his way past the servants, and even
jostling certain ladies, very carefully wrapped up, who had quietly
crept in to try and see the famous Christian Waldo as he should pass.
Christian himself, consequently, attracted no attention at all, and
met comparatively few persons, when a moment afterwards he followed,
carrying his box and his great bundle.
“That must be the assistant,” they said, “since he’s carrying the
things. He must needs wear a mask too, the booby!”
And they lamented their ill-success in failing to catch the least
glimpse of the face or even of the figure of Waldo himself, who had
shot off like lightning.
When Christian had finished loading his ass, he returned to the
green-room, and had scarcely entered it when M. Johan made an effort
to take him by surprise, so as to satisfy his curiosity about him.
The major-domo tried the door stealthily, hoping to enter without
knocking, on the pretext of paying the amount due for the exhibition.
Christian, conjecturing who his visitor was, resolved to have a little
amusement at the expense of this insinuating gentleman. Accordingly,
he masked himself carefully, and, leaving but one candle burning,
opened the door, which he had not forgotten to lock, with a great deal
of politeness.
“Have I the pleasure of speaking with M. Christian Waldo himself?”
asked the major-domo, as he handed him the sum agreed on.
“The same!” said Christian; “you must surely remember my voice and
dress, since you saw me only a little while ago.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow, but your assistant masks himself too, it
seems; he passed me a while ago on the stairs, looking as mysterious as
yourself, and wrapped up in much better style, by George! than he was
yesterday, when you arrived.”
“The fact is that the rascal, instead of carrying my cloak on his arm,
takes the liberty of putting it on his back. I let him do it, for he is
a chilly sort of fellow.”
“Ah, indeed! Well, there is one thing about this chilly fellow that
surprises me greatly. That is, that yesterday he was a full head
shorter than you.”
“Does that surprise you?” said Christian, drawing on his powers of
improvisation; “then you cannot have noticed his feet to-day.”
“Why no, really. Was he on stilts?”
“Not exactly, but on pattens four or five inches high.”
“But what for?”
“Why, M. Major-domo! How can a man as intelligent as yourself ask such
a question as that?”
“I confess I don’t understand it,” said Johan, biting his lips.
“Well, then, M. Major-domo, you will easily see that if the two
operators in a theatre like mine are not pretty nearly of the same
height, one of them would have to let his head appear, which would not
produce a good effect among the _burattini_, but would rather look
as if an inhabitant of Saturn had come amongst them; or else the other,
the shorter of the two, would have to stretch his arms up so high, that
he could not endure the fatigue through two scenes.”
“Then your assistant wears pattens to bring him up to your height! Upon
my word that’s very ingenious!” And Johan added, with a sceptical air:
“It’s singular that I did not hear the noise of those pattens, when he
was going down stairs a while ago.”
“There again, M. Major-domo, your natural shrewdness seems to be
slumbering! If those pattens were not well shod with felt they would
make an insupportable clattering in the theatre.”
“Oh, that’s the reason, is it? But you don’t explain to me how it
is that this fellow, vulgar and stupid as he is, can support you so
brilliantly?”
“It can’t be explained,” answered Christian; “but, nevertheless, it
is almost always the way with an artist. He shines on the stage--or
I should say, in this case, under the stage--but once outside the
theatre, he turns dark again, particularly if he happens to have the
bad habit of drinking with the servants in the families where he may
happen to stop.”
“What! Do you imagine that he has been drinking here with--”
“With some of your footmen. They must have given you a report of his
interesting conversation, M. Major-domo, since you are so well informed
about the low grade of his intelligence.”
Johan bit his lips again; and Christian felt convinced either that
Puffo, in his drunkenness, had betrayed his incognito in a measure, or
that Massarelli, for a sum of money, had done so without any reserve.
The only name that Puffo knew him by was Dulac, but Massarelli had
known him under all his successive names, except, perhaps, that of
Christian Goefle, so recently improvised. Christian tried to conjecture
how this might be, while observing closely the major-domo’s evident
and keen desire to see his face. He soon came to the conclusion that
he was not so curious to satisfy his doubts as to his death’s head, as
to ascertain whether or not the performer was one and the same person
with M. Goefle’s pretended nephew, whose face the major-domo had seen
plainly the evening before.
“Come, confess,” the latter said at last, after many insidious
questions, to all of which the adventurer had replied very guardedly;
“if some agreeable lady--a charming young person--say the Countess
Margaret, for instance, should ask to see your face, would you be
equally obstinate in refusing?”
“Who is the Countess Margaret?” asked Christian, in the most innocent
manner in the world, though he felt a great inclination to give M.
Johan a box on the ear.
“_Mon Dieu!_” rejoined the major-domo, “I mentioned her because
she is by all odds the most beautiful woman in the chateau at the
present time. Did you not see her?”
“Pray where could I have seen her?”
“In the front row of ladies.”
“Why! do you suppose that when I am playing a piece with twenty actors
in it, almost entirely alone, I have time to look at the women?--”
“I don’t say that, but really now, would you not like to please a
beautiful young lady?”
“To please her? M. Johan,” exclaimed Christian, with well-affected
emotion, “without meaning it, you are asking me a very painful
question. You do not seem to know that nature has been pleased to make
me frightfully ugly, and that my unfortunate appearance is my only
reason for taking so much pains to conceal myself.”
“It is so reported,” replied Johan, “but the contrary is also
asserted; and his lordship, as well as all the company, and the ladies
particularly, are extremely anxious to know what they are to believe.”
“I certainly could not subject myself to the pain of gratifying such a
misplaced desire as that. I prefer to supply you with evidence which
will enable you to dissuade them.”
As he spoke, Christian, relying upon the dim light which he had
provided, lifted his black silk mask, and, as it were precipitately,
and with a kind of desperate effort, suffered the major-domo to
behold, for a moment, a second mask of waxed cloth, so skilfully made
that it bore every resemblance to an actual human face; without close
examination by a strong light, no one would have suspected the cheat.
And what a face was thus disclosed--flat-nosed, sallow, and horribly
blemished by a great wine-colored birth-mark! Johan, in spite of
his suspicious nature, was deceived, and could not refrain from an
exclamation of disgust.
“I really beg your pardon, my dear friend,” he exclaimed, recovering
himself, “you are much to be pitied; and yet, your talent and your wit
are advantages which I envy you.”
The major-domo was himself so ugly that Christian could scarcely
refrain from bursting into a laugh at the idea that he should consider
himself so much handsomer than the mask.
“And now,” he said, after replacing the black mask, “tell me frankly
why you were so anxious to know the extent of my ugliness.”
“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Johan, after a moment’s hesitation,
assuming a confiding air, “I’ll tell you. And, by the way, if you
would help me to find out a certain secret--a foolish joke which more
than one person here is interested in discovering, you would confer a
great obligation--you know what I mean--an obligation that would be
munificently rewarded by the master of the house. It’s a mere piece of
pleasantry; there’s a bet about it.”
“I would like nothing better,” answered Christian, curious to hear the
communication, whose nature, however, he anticipated; “what is it?”
“You are lodging at Stollborg, are you not?”
“Yes; you would not take me in here.”
“Where did you sleep--in the bear-room?”
“I did, and capitally too.”
“Capitally, did you? The ghost they talk about--”
“It is not about a ghost that you want to question me. You don’t
believe in them any more than I do.”
“True; but there was a strange apparition here at the ball, whom nobody
knew. This you might have met at Stollborg.”
“No, I have seen no apparition.”
“But when I say an apparition--Did you not see a lawyer there, one M.
Goefle, a very able man?”
“Yes; I had the honor of conversing with him this morning. He occupies
the room there with two beds in it.”
“With his nephew?”
“I saw nothing of any nephew.”
“Nephew or not, a young man of about your height, whose voice I did not
notice particularly, but with a very agreeable face, dressed in a black
suit throughout--a very good-looking young fellow--”
“Good-looking? I wish to heaven it could have been myself, M. Johan!
But I was so very sleepy that I should hardly have known it even if he
had been there. I only saw a drunken fellow whom they call Ulphilas.”
“And did M. Goefle see nothing of this stranger?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Did he know nothing of him?”
“Ah! that reminds me--yes, I recollect. I heard M. Goefle complaining
about some person who had made use of his name to attend the ball. Is
that it?”
“Exactly.”
“But, M. Major-domo, if you were so puzzled about this unknown, why
didn’t you have him followed?”
“We were not puzzled at the time. He had given himself out for a near
relative of the advocate, and, as a matter of course, we expected to
see him again. It was only this morning, when the lawyer had disavowed
him, that the baron thought of inquiring who the unknown could be, who,
under a feigned name, had ventured to introduce himself into the house.
No doubt it was some impertinent fellow who had laid a wager about it;
one of the students from the Falun Mining-school, perhaps--unless,
indeed, he really should be a natural son of the advocate--as he
himself, it seems, intimated--whom his father, however, does not permit
to assume his name.”
“All that seems to me hardly worth the trouble of so much inquiry,”
observed Christian, with an air of indifference. “Will you allow me
now, M. Major-domo, to go and have some supper?”
“Yes, by all means. You shall come and take supper with me.”
“No, thank you. I am very much fatigued; I must beg you to excuse me.”
“So you insist on going back to Stollborg. You must be very poorly
accommodated there.”
“Very well, on the contrary.”
“But have you a bed, even?”
“I am to have one to-night.”
“Does that drunken Ulphilas provide you a decent table?”
“It could not be better.”
“Will you repeat your performance for us to-morrow?”
“At what time?”
“The same as this evening.”
“With great pleasure. Your obedient servant!”
“Ah, a single word, M. Waldo. Would it be an indiscretion to inquire
what is your real name?”
“By no means, M. Johan. My real name is Stentarello, very much at your
service.”
“You are a wag. I suppose it is you who always play that part in a
comedy?”
“Always, except when it is my assistant.”
“You are mysterious!”
“Certainly, in matters that relate to the secrets of my theatre.
Otherwise, I should have neither reputation nor success.”
“Well, at any rate, will you allow me to inquire why you named one of
your characters the baron?”
“Ah, as to that, you must ask the footman who made Puffo drunk. For my
part, I am used to his blunders, and I should never have noticed it, if
he had not told me about it himself, in a great fright.”
“Had he perhaps picked up some foolish gossip or other?”
“About what? Will you be so good as to explain?”
“No, no, it is not worth the trouble,” replied Johan, who saw--thanks
to Christian’s adroitness, or perhaps his carelessness--that their
relative positions had become inverted, and that he himself, instead
of asking questions, was being compelled to answer them. But still he
could not help returning to a subject to which he had already referred.
“So, then,” he said, “it seems you have a scene so much like Stollborg
as to be mistaken for it.”
“I had one that happened to look a little like Stollborg, yes, it is
true; but I completed the resemblance on purpose.”
“Why?”
“Why, as I told you, by way of a compliment to the baron. I always make
a point of representing some locality in the neighborhood wherever I
may happen to be performing, so as to add to the attractiveness of my
exhibitions. At my next stopping-place Stollborg will be changed again,
and a new scene displayed. Did the baron think it poorly painted? No
wonder, I had so very little time.”
While talking, Christian had amused himself by studying the
disagreeable countenance of Johan. He was a man of about fifty, rather
stout, vulgar in manner, and with features whose expression seemed at
first good-natured and apathetic. But even the night before, Christian,
as he handed him the letter of invitation found in M. Goefle’s pocket,
had detected a sort of inquisitorial watchfulness, veiled by an
assumed indifference, in his oblique glance. He was still more struck
at present by these indications of a false, hypocritical character--a
sort of caricature, as it seemed, of his master’s, the baron. Still, as
Johan was nothing after all but an upper servant, without education or
real finesse, Christian had no difficulty in playing a better comedy
than he, and in effectually persuading him of the perfect innocence of
his intentions. And in the meanwhile, for his own part, he obtained
from the interview a quasi-certitude in regard to the story of Baroness
Hilda. It seemed to him perfectly evident that a drama of some kind had
been enacted at Stollborg, and that the baron had either been terrified
or enraged at witnessing his performance; since it had represented in
dramatic form, no matter with what intention, this triple conjunction:
a prison, a victim, and a jailer.