AS for Johan, he was assuredly the baron’s confidant, and perhaps had
been one of the actors in this drama. He had tried to discover how far
Christian Waldo, as a wandering story-teller, had become acquainted
with the mystery; but Christian had adroitly insinuated that the
servants of the chateau had been guilty of an indiscretion, and, for
the present at least, had freed both himself and M. Goefle from any
supposed participation in the matter.
We will now leave Christian, who proceeded philosophically to drive the
heavily-laden Jean from the new chateau, and revert to certain matters
that had been occurring during his interview with the major-domo. Let
us go back to the moment when M. Goefle set out for Stollborg: the moon
was rising, and the aurora borealis beginning to shine with renewed
splendor, and lighted on his way by their combined effulgence, he
walked rapidly across the lake, humming a tune, and every now and then
unconsciously gesticulating.
By this time supper had been served to the guests at the new chateau,
and the size and beauty of the splendid Christmas-cake, which,
according to the Norwegian usage, was to remain uncut upon the table
until the sixth of January, was attracting the admiration of the
ladies. It was a masterpiece of confectionery; and, with due respect
to the gallantry of the period as well as to the observances of a
religious festival, it had been made to resemble the temple of Paphos.
It was ornamented with monuments, trees, fountains, people and animals.
The pastry-work, and crystallized sugar of all colors, imitated the
most precious materials, and were elaborately wrought into the most
fantastic forms.
The baron, on the plea of having important letters to read and answer,
had intrusted the duty of doing the honors of the supper-table to an
elderly single lady of his family, a person thoroughly accomplished in
the duties of the mistress of the house, and a complete cipher in all
other respects. The truth was, that the baron, who never lacked excuses
for excluding himself when he happened to feel preoccupied, was, at
the present moment, shut up in his private cabinet with a man with a
pale face, who called himself Tebaldo, and who was no other than Guido
Massarelli. Guido had not obtained this tête-à-tête without effort.
Johan, who was very jealous of his master’s confidence, had tried to
extract his secret from him, so as to turn it to his own advantage; but
Massarelli was not the man to be deceived in that way. He had insisted;
and after waiting about the chateau for the whole day, he had at last
succeeded in obtaining the interview, whose results he had anticipated,
when he had boasted in advance to Christian that he was a friend of the
family. The conversation, which was carried on in French, begun with
a strange narrative, to which the baron listened with a sarcastic and
contemptuous expression.
“You have made a very startling statement,” he observed, at last, to
Massarelli; “and I should even say, if I could believe what I have
heard, a very important revelation. But I have so often been deceived
in matters of a delicate nature, that I must insist on other proofs
than mere verbal ones, before trusting you. The story you have related
is strange, romantic, improbable--”
“And yet M. Stenson acknowledged its accuracy; he did not even attempt
to deny it,” replied the Italian.
“So you say,” coldly answered the baron; “unfortunately, I am unable to
corroborate your assertions. If I should interrogate Stenson, he would
certainly deny it, whether it be true or imaginary.”
“Very probably, your lordship. A man so capable of dissimulation as
to have imposed upon you for twenty years, will not be at a loss for
a falsehood now; but, if you will contrive to overhear a conversation
between us, you can learn the truth. I will undertake to make him admit
it again, and in your hearing, provided he has no suspicion of your
presence.”
“It would not be difficult, so deaf as he is, to introduce one’s self
into his premises; but since, according to him, the person is dead,
why need I concern myself about the past life of old Stenson? He must
necessarily have acted in good faith; and though he had done me a great
wrong by keeping silence, and thus permitting odious suspicions to rest
upon me, yet--since time has rectified former prejudices--”
“Not so entirely as your lordship seems to believe,” observed the
Italian, who was scarcely inferior to the baron himself in cool
audacity. “The story is current throughout the country, and Christian
Waldo must certainly have heard it on his way here.”
“If that were the case,” said the baron, with a look betraying his
secret rage, “that juggler would never have dared introduce it in
public, and before my very face, into a scene of his comedy.”
“And yet one of his scenes did really represent the old donjon. I
examined the locality to-day, and Christian Waldo, who is lodging at
Stollborg, must certainly have done the same. The Italians--they are
very bold fellows, your lordship, these Italians!”
“I see they are, M. Tebaldo. You say that this Waldo is lodging at
Stollborg, and therefore must have painted this scene on purpose,
and from nature. It is hardly probable that he could have done it so
quickly. The resemblance between his decoration and the old tower must
have been accidental.”
“I think not, your lordship; Waldo has great facility, and paints as
rapidly as he improvises.”
“You know him, then?”
“Yes, your lordship.”
“What is his real name?”
“That is what I proposed to communicate to your lordship, if the sum I
have mentioned does not seem to you exorbitant.”
“But what interest can I have in learning his real name?”
“An interest that is immense; _all important_.”
The emphasis with which the pretended Tebaldo pronounced these last
words, seemed to make some impression on the baron.
“You say,” he resumed, after a pause, “that the person referred to is
dead?”
“Stenson affirms that it is so.”
“And you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Perhaps Christian Waldo knows?”
“He knows nothing at all about it.”
“You are certain of that?”
“I am certain.”
“But you are trying to give me to understand that this person is the
same with--”
“I did not say that, your lordship.”
“Then you are trying to say it and not to say it. You wish to be paid
in advance for information probably chimerical.”
“No, I have only demanded your lordship’s signature, to be used in case
you shall afterwards be satisfied with what you receive from me.”
“I never give my signature. If any one doubts me, so much the worse for
him.”
“In that case, your lordship, I will carry my secret away with me
again. He whom it concerns, at least as much as it does yourself, shall
have it for nothing.”
Tebaldo was going resolutely out of the cabinet, when the baron
recalled him. These two men were both secretly agitated, and for a
similar cause: they were afraid of each other. Before Guido had had
time to lay his hand upon the knob of the door, he said to himself: “I
am crazy; the baron will have me assassinated to secure my silence.”
Upon his side, the baron reflected: “Perhaps he has already spoken; he
alone can tell me what I really have to fear.”
“M. Tebaldo,” said the baron, “suppose I should tell you that I have
known him longer than you imagine?”
“I should be delighted on your account, your lordship,” answered the
Italian, with audacity.
“This person is not dead. He is here--or at least he was here
yesterday. I saw him, and recognized him.”
“Recognized him?” said Massarelli, with surprise.
“Yes, recognized. I know what I am saying. He called himself by the
name of Goefle, either with or without the permission of a respectable
gentleman of that name. You can therefore speak freely. You see that
I am on the right track, and that it is simply puerile to endeavor to
direct my suspicions upon this mountebank, Waldo.”
The Italian, astonished, was silent. He had arrived only that morning,
and knew nothing of what had passed the evening before. He had met M.
Goefle, but without knowing who he was. He could not speak Swedish,
and still less Dalecarlian; and had found no one to talk to except the
major-domo, who could speak a little French, but was very distrustful.
Accordingly he was perfectly ignorant of the appearance of Christian
Goefle at the ball, and really did not know what the baron was speaking
about. The latter, on seeing his surprise and discomfiture, imagined
that he was confounded, by finding him already in possession of the
truth.
“Come,” he said, “speak out, and make an end of it. Tell me the whole.
You may rely upon a recompense corresponding to the service which you
may render me.”
But the Italian had already recovered his assurance. Persuaded that the
baron was on a false scent, and resolved not to surrender his secret
for an inadequate recompense, his only thought at present was to gain
time, and to escape from the clutches of this man who was reputed so
terrible, and who might play him an ill turn in case of a peremptory
refusal to explain himself.
“Is your lordship willing,” he said, “to give me twenty-four thousand
crowns, and allow me twenty-four hours to place in your presence, and
within your power, the person whom it is so much for your interest to
know?”
“Twenty-four thousand crowns is little,” replied the baron, ironically;
“twenty-four hours is a great deal.”
“It is but little, for a man who is alone.”
“Are you in want of assistance? I have very adroit and trustworthy
people in my employment.”
“If I am to share the twenty-four thousand crowns with them, I would
rather act alone, at my own risk and peril.”
“But which is it that you propose to do?”
“Whatever your lordship shall direct.”
“Indeed! You seem to be suggesting--”
At this moment, the baron was interrupted by a sort of scratching upon
the outside of one of the doors of the cabinet.
“Wait here for me,” he said to Massarelli, and went out into another
room.
Guido now rapidly reviewed the situation. He was terrified by the
baron’s calmness, and began to think that correspondence would be a
more prudent mode of transacting the business. Hoping to escape, he
crossed the room, and tried the door by which he had entered. It was
shut and latched by some secret device, which he could not detect,
notwithstanding a certain degree of mechanical skill. He looked out of
the window; it was eighty feet from the ground.
He noiselessly tried the door by which the baron had gone out; it was
as close shut as the other. The desk stood open, and within it was
visible a delectable assemblage of rouleaux of gold.
“Ah!” said Massarelli to himself, with a sigh; “the doors must needs be
strong, and the locks good, if they trust me here alone with all those
bright pieces.”
His position began to seem to him serious, and even alarming. He
listened, hoping to catch what was said in the next room, but could
not distinguish a single word. However, we shall take the liberty of
reporting the conversation that was held there:
“Well, Johan,” said the baron, “did you succeed? Did you see this
Waldo’s face?”
“Yes, your lordship. He is not yesterday’s man; he is a monster.”
“Worse looking than you?”
“I am a beauty compared with him.”
“Did you have a good look at him?”
“As distinct as I have of you, at the present moment.”
“Did you take him by surprise?”
“Not at all. I said I was curious to see him, and he was so obliging as
to unmask.”
“And how about the other, the false Goefle?”
“No news.”
“Very singular. Has nobody seen anything of him anywhere?”
“This Waldo did not meet him at Stollborg, and M. Goefle knows nothing
at all about him.”
“Perhaps Ulphilas may have seen him?”
“Ulphilas declares that nobody has been at Stollborg but M. Goefle,
his domestic, and this frightful looking fellow, whom I just now saw
myself.”
“M. Goefle has a domestic, has he? That is our unknown in disguise.”
“It’s a child of ten years old.”
“Then I am quite at a loss.”
“Has your lordship received any information from this Italian?”
“No; he is either a liar or a lunatic. But in any event, I must
discover the incognito fellow who insulted me. You say he smoked and
talked with Major Larrson and his friends?”
“Yes, in the lower saloon.”
“Then those young men are hiding him; he is at the major’s bostoelle!”
“I will have it watched. The major is not the man to keep a secret,
with that careless way of his. He came here this morning, and has not
been home to-day. His lieutenant--”
“Is an ass! But these young people hate me.”
“What have you to fear from this unknown?”
“Everything, and nothing. What do you think of this Tebaldo?”
“A blackguard.”
“Then we must not let go of him. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“How far are they with supper?”
“The dessert will be served shortly.”
“I must go and show myself. Give orders to get out my handsomest sleigh
and the best four-horse team.”
“Do you join the race on the lake?”
“No; on the contrary, I shall try and rest. But I want the people here
to think me remarkably well; I shall be detained by public business.
Have a courier all ready and booted, and be sure that he is seen. Give
orders and counter-orders about him. Let it be supposed that I am very
busy, and, of course, in good health.”
“Then you want your beloved heirs to burst with vexation?”
“I want to bury them, Johan.”
“Amen, my dear master! Shall I wait on you as far as the supper-room?”
“No, I like to go silently and take my company by surprise; just now,
especially.”
The baron accordingly departed for the supper-room, and Johan went into
the cabinet, where Massarelli, who was waiting with great anxiety,
found the time pass very slowly.
“Come, my boy,” said Johan, with his most gracious air, “it’s
supper-time.”
“But--am I not to see the baron again this evening? He told me to wait
here.”
“He sends you word by me to have a quiet supper, and wait for further
orders. Do you suppose you are the only person he has to listen to?
Come along. Are you afraid of me? Do I look like a bad sort of fellow?”
“You do, upon my word,” said Guido to himself, as he slipped a
stiletto, which he knew how to handle very skilfully, into his sleeve.
Johan espied the performance, and hurried out of the room. Guido
endeavored to follow, but he was seized by two colossal fellows, who
were stationed at the door, and who led him, with a pistol at his head,
to the prison of the chateau. There he was searched and disarmed, and
then handed over to the guardian of the place, a sort of bravo and
adventurer, in short a professional villain, who was known in the
chateau as “the captain,” but who never made his appearance in the
saloons.
Johan, who had followed, supervised the examination that was made of
Guido’s pockets and clothes with a benign air. When certain that he had
no papers concealed about him, he withdrew, saying:
“Good-night, my young friend. Next time, don’t try any tricks.”
He added to himself:
“He said he had the proofs of a great secret. Either he has lied
like an idiot, or he has been cautious, like a man that understands
business; but he was not cautious enough. So much the worse for him.
A small dose of imprisonment will fetch either the proofs or the
confession.”
Meanwhile the baron, although in great physical pain, quietly entered
the supper-room, ate a little with an air of appetite, and was as gay
as it was in his nature to be. That is, he stated, with an icy smile,
sundry propositions of a frightfully atheistical kind, and indulged in
various odious and cruel insinuations about sundry persons who were
absent.
When calumniating his neighbors, it was the practice of this amiable
gentleman to speak in a low voice, and with an air of indifference;
but, on such occasions, his heirs and flatterers were only too ready
to repeat his witty sayings with much noise and laughter. As was
natural, many persons present would be shocked by these remarks; but,
by accepting their host’s invitation, they had put it out of their
power to contradict him boldly, and such timid defence of the absent as
they ventured upon only served, as a matter of course, to make their
case the worse. The baron would repeat his remarks with an air of
disdainful bravado, and would be eagerly sustained by his satellites.
Those of his guests who were really right-minded could only sigh and
blush at their own weakness in having allowed themselves to be dragged
into such an ogre’s den. But the master of the house never protracted
any discussion. After hurling some bitter sarcasm at good-natured and
timid people, he would rise and go out, leaving it quite uncertain
as to whether or not he intended to return. A universal sense of
constraint would prevail, until it became evident that he was not
going to return, and then everybody would take breath, even his most
unscrupulous dependents, who were quite as uneasy in his presence as
the rest of the company.
On this evening, however, Baron Olaus lost a good opportunity of
revenging himself, and inflicting pain upon another. Had he known
of Margaret’s two visits to Stollborg, he would not have failed
to proclaim the fact in some bitterly satirical way. Fortunately,
Providence had guarded the young girl’s innocent secret. Her enemy, who
would have read in her conduct conclusive proofs that the counterfeit
Goefle was at Stollborg, had not received the slightest hint on the
subject. Johan had caused Ulphilas to be closely questioned about all
the persons who had visited the old tower in the course of the day;
but Ulphilas had not seen Margaret, and he had a sufficient reason
for making a singularly appropriate reply to all inquiries about
Christian’s appearance; to wit, the terror with which he had been
inspired by the young man’s grimaces and threats in an unknown tongue.
To Ulphilas he had appeared even more frightful without a mask than he
had seemed to Johan with one; the assertions of the boor satisfied the
major-domo that his opinion was correct, and led him to confirm the
baron in his error. The result of the investigation was, therefore,
that the handsome Christian Goefle had disappeared, and that the real
Christian Waldo was a monster.
The baron communicated this latter piece of intelligence to the party
at the supper-table with a kind of satisfaction; for, just as he came
in, they were praising the artist, and he found a certain pleasure in
dissipating an agreeable illusion.
“You ought not to spoil his beauty in the eyes of Countess Margaret,
baron,” said Olga, “she was enthusiastic over his delivery, and now I
wager anything that she will not take the least pleasure in listening
to him.”
Margaret, who was seated near Olga and the baron, pretended not to
hear, so that she need not be obliged to answer, in case the latter
should seek to enter into conversation with her, as he had already
tried in vain to do several times since the previous evening.
“You think, then,” resumed the baron, still addressing Olga, but
speaking quite loud, “that Countess Margaret would not be touched by a
lover’s plea, unless it should be urged by a young and handsome man.”
“I am sure of it,” answered Olga, lowering her voice, “and no man is
handsome, in her eyes, who is more than twenty-five years old.”
Olga intended this as a delicate compliment to her semi-centennial
intended, but he was not in a good humor, and the arrow missed aim.
“She is probably quite right,” he replied, so low that no one but
the young Russian could hear him; “the longer one lives after that
fortunate age the more one loses one’s good looks, and the less can he
expect to marry for love.”
“True,” said Olga, “if he does lose his good looks, but--”
“But even if he does not become altogether horrible,” persisted the
baron, “he will still be fortunate, if he is able to contract a
sensible marriage.”
Olga was about to reply, but he closed her mouth by adding:
“Do not find fault with that poor child. She has one great merit in my
eyes--she is sincere. When she hates people she shows it so frankly,
that the fortunate man who shall succeed in pleasing her may trust her
completely. She is a person who will never deceive.”
Olga had no opportunity to reply, for the baron turned away and began
talking to some one else.
The young Russian was extremely irritated, and very much disquieted.
When they arose from the table, Margaret, who was equally anxious,
though from a very different cause, approached her.
“What was the baron saying?” she asked, drawing her aside; “he was
talking about me, I know, for he was looking straight at me for two or
three minutes.”
“You only fancied so,” answered Olga, dryly; “he does not think of you
at all any more.”
“Ah! I wish I could be sure of it. Tell me the truth, dear. Is it so?”
“Your anxiety, Margaret, is not very delicate, allow me to say. You
think that, in spite of your severity to him, he still adores you.”
“Very well, why not?” asked Margaret, resolving to pique her companion
for the sake of getting at the truth; “perhaps I shall succeed in
supplanting you, in despite of myself, exactly by being severe!”
A flash of wounded vanity gleamed in the eyes of the pretty Russian.
“Margaret,” she said, “you want war, and you shall have it. Here, take
back your present! You gave me a handsome bracelet, but I don’t want it
any longer. Here is a ring that is much handsomer.”
She drew a box from her pocket, which she opened; it contained two
ornaments--Margaret’s bracelet and the baron’s ring.
“The black diamond!” cried Margaret, shrinking back in terror. “What!
are you not afraid to touch it?”
But before Olga could reply, she recovered herself:
“No matter, no matter,” she said, embracing her, “I decline war, dear
friend, and I really thank you, with all my heart, for showing me your
engagement-ring. Keep the bracelet, I beg of you; be assured of my
thanks and my friendship.”
Olga burst into tears.
“Margaret,” she said, “if you betray me I am ruined. I swore to keep my
engagement secret for eight days; and if the baron suspects that I have
failed in my word--and he will, if you show how glad you are--he will
break it off, and begin to think of you again--especially since he has
never ceased to do so.”
“And that is what you are crying for? Why then, you love him, do you
not? Well, my dear friend, however strange your preference seems to
me, it sets you right, in my opinion. I thought that you were merely
ambitious. If you love, I love you--and I am sorry for you!”
“Ah!” said Olga, “you are sorry for me, are you not?”
Drawing Margaret to the end of the gallery, she sobbed upon her
shoulder, and could scarcely keep from breaking out into violent
hysterical cries. Margaret carried her away to her own room, where,
after a time, she quieted her.
“There, I am well again now,” said Olga, rising; “I have had two or
three such attacks since yesterday, but this is the last; I feel it. I
have made up my mind; I intend to be calm. I can trust you, and I will
not be weak, I will not be afraid, I will not suffer any longer.”
She took the ring from her pocket, put it on her finger, and turned
pale again as she gazed upon it, with a melancholy expression. Then,
taking it off, she said:
“I must not wear it yet.”
And she replaced it in the box, and in her pocket.
Margaret left her without understanding what was really passing in
her mind. This strange passion for a man of the baron’s age and
character seemed to her inexplicable, but she was so generous and so
simple-hearted that she believed in it; while the truth was that Olga,
seized with a sudden hatred for her betrothed husband, and disgust at
her betrothal ring, was struggling against what she called her human
weakness--was trying hard to quell the revolt of her heart, her mind,
her whole being, so that she might consummate, without shrinking,
her unhappy and dangerous conquest of a great name and a high social
position.
During this scene the baron had been giving orders for the race and
masquerade, as if he had expected to be present at them himself. But,
having done this, he left his guests to make their preparations for the
evening’s entertainment, and retired to his own room, worn out with
fatigue and pain. In the meanwhile his horses, magnificently harnessed,
and restrained with difficulty by the coachman, who pretended to be
waiting for his master, were gayly prancing before his private door.
He was, in fact, shut up with his physician, a young man of larger
attainments than experience, who, for a year past, had been attached
exclusively to his service.
“Doctor,” said he, putting aside a dose which the young man offered him
in a timid and apprehensive manner, “you are not treating me properly!
More opium, I’ll venture!”
“Your lordship requires quieting medicines; your nervous system is in a
state of extreme agitation.”
“By Jove! I know that perfectly well; but pray soothe without weakening
me. Relieve me from this convulsive tremor, but do not deprive me of my
strength.”
The sick man was demanding an impossibility, but the physician dared
not tell him so.
“I am in hopes,” he said, “that this draught will quiet without
enfeebling you.”
“Well, but will it act quickly? I want to sleep two or three hours, and
then get up and attend to some business. Can you guarantee that I shall
regain my usual command of my faculties in the course of the night?”
“Your lordship is driving me to despair! Do you propose to go to work
again to-night after yesterday’s attack, and to-day’s? You cannot go on
in that way.”
“But have I not an uncommon constitution? And have you not told me a
hundred times that you would cure me? Have you been deceiving me? Are
you making sport of me?”
“Ah!” replied the physician, with a distressed expression, “you surely
could not believe such a thing!”
“Well, well, give me the draught. Will it act at once?”
“In a quarter of an hour, provided you do not destroy its effect by
your agitation.”
“Give me my watch. There, put it by my side. I want to see if you are
sure of the effects of your own drugs.”
The baron drank off the potion, seated himself in his great arm-chair,
and rang for his valet-de-chambre.
“Go and find Major Larrson,” he said, “and say to him from me that I
beg him to superintend the race. He understands about such matters
better than any one else.”
The valet went out, but the baron recalled him almost instantly.
“Tell Johan to go to bed and to sleep. I shall want him at three
o’clock in the morning. Let him come himself, and wake me up. Go
now--no, wait, I am to hunt to-morrow. Is everything ready? Yes? Very
good. Now you may go.”
The valet really went this time; and the young physician, who was very
much agitated, remained alone with his patient.
“Your draught has no effect at all,” said the latter, impatiently. “I
ought to have been asleep by this time.”
“If your lordship will persist in tormenting yourself about a thousand
and one details--”
“The devil! my dear sir, if I were not obliged to torment myself, I
should not need a physician. Come, take a seat. Let us have a little
quiet conversation.”
“If, instead of talking, your lordship would reflect quietly.”
“Reflect! I reflect a great deal too much as it is. It is that that
makes me so feverish. No, no, let us talk, as we did last night. I fell
asleep, you know, talking. You are aware, doctor, that I have resolved
definitely to marry?”
“That pretty Countess Margaret?”
“Not at all; she’s a little fool. I am going to marry the stately Olga.
I mean to have some Russian children.”
“They will be handsome, that is certain.”
“Yes, if my wife has good taste; for I don’t believe one word of
your flatteries, doctor. My wife will not be faithful to me. What
difference does it make, provided that I have an heir; provided all
my hopeful relations, cousins and second cousins, are baffled and
infuriated. Doctor, I insist upon living long enough to see that; do
you understand? Now see to it;--remember I don’t bequeath you a single
ducat. I shall pay you exorbitantly as long as I live, so as to make
it your interest to do well by me; but that is all. As for my wife, I
shall treat her in the same way. During my life, she shall have all the
luxury, all the jewels she wants, and more and more every year. After
my death, unless she has saved something, she will have nothing at all;
I won’t leave her even the guardianship of her own child. Far from it;
I don’t want to be poisoned.”
“You are feeding your mind on gloomy ideas, your lordship; that’s a bad
diet.”
“What nonsense that is, doctor! It is as if you should tell me that I
did wrong to have too much bile in my liver. Is it my fault?”
“But can’t you force yourself to dwell on cheerful ideas? There’s that
comedy of marionettes, for instance. It was very amusing.”
“Think about a set of puppets? Do you want to turn me into an idiot?”
“For the time being, certainly, if I could quiet down the fire of your
thoughts--”
“No compliments about my intellect, I beg you. I am conscious that it
is failing, decidedly.”
“Your lordship is the only one who perceives it.”
The baron shrugged his shoulders, yawned, and was silent for a few
minutes. His eyes seemed to grow larger, the pupils dilated, and his
lower lip drooped a little. Sleep was approaching.
Suddenly he started up, and pointed to the wall.
“There it is again,” he cried, “just as it was yesterday! It was a
man at first, and then the face changed--There, she is looking out of
the window--she bends over--run, run, doctor! They have deceived me!
betrayed me! I have been fooled like a child--A child? No, there was no
child!--”
By this time he was wide awake, and sitting down again, he added, with
a gloomy smile:
“It was in Christian Waldo’s comedy;--a juggler’s trick! You see,
doctor, I am thinking about the puppets, as you wished. I feel
heavy--do not leave me.”
And even as he spoke, the baron fell asleep, with his eyes open like a
corpse.
In a few moments, his eyelids relaxed and then closed. The doctor felt
his pulse. It was too full and heavy. In his opinion the patient ought
to be bled, but how could he induce him to allow it?
“A thankless, odious, impossible task to be keeping this man alive,
in spite of heaven and himself!” Thus reflected the poor doctor.
“Either he has constant attacks of insanity, or else he is tormented by
remorse. I feel as if I should go crazy myself from being with him; the
terrors of his imagination seize upon me, too, as if I were becoming
the accomplice of some crime, by trying to save his life!”
But the young man had a mother, and a betrothed sweetheart; and as a
few years of lucrative employment would enable him to marry the one,
and save the other from poverty, he had consented to be nailed to this
corpse, incessantly galvanized into a seeming life by the resources
of his art. Sometimes he was full of devotion to his task, and again
felt so broken down with fatigue and disgust, that he scarcely knew
whether he would prefer to have his patient die or recover. The young
man was of a kindly disposition and an excellent heart. This constant
intercourse with an atheist was freezing him; and he had not even the
privilege of defending his opinions, for contradiction irritated the
patient. He was sociable and cheerful, while the sick man, under his
outward habit of sour and cynical raillery, was gloomy and misanthropic.
While the baron lay there asleep, moreover, the pleasures of the night
were under full headway. The sounds of fireworks and music, the barking
of the dogs roused out of their kennels by the stamping of the horses
that were being harnessed, the laughter of the ladies in the corridors
of the chateau, the gleaming lights that could be seen moving upon the
lake, everything that was going on outside of the silent and gloomy
chamber where the sick man, immovable and livid, lay in heavy slumber,
intensified the young man’s sense of isolation and servitude.
The Countess d’Elveda, in the meanwhile, was absorbed in conspiring
with the Russian ambassador against the nationality of Sweden; while
the cousins and second cousins of the baron were keeping watch upon the
door of his apartments.
“He will go,” they whispered to each other; “no, he will not be able.
He is more ill than he will confess. He is better than people think.”
How were they to ascertain? The servants, perfectly devoted to the
absolute will of this master, who paid well, and punished well too--for
in Sweden, servants at this period were still liable to corporal
punishment--invariably replied, when questioned, that the baron had
never been better. And as for the doctor, the baron, on engaging him,
had required him to give his word of honor that he would never reveal
the serious nature of his malady.
As the reader has already been told, the baron, to account for his
frequent disappearances from his entertainments, had caused it to be
generally understood that he was always liable to be called away by
some one or other of his numerous and important engagements. This was,
moreover, to a certain extent true; he was accustomed to supervise
the details of the political intrigues in which he was concerned; and
his private affairs were embarrassed with the lawsuits to which his
restless disposition and despotic claims were constantly giving rise.
Now, however, superadded to all these causes of excitement, was a
strange trouble, indistinct as yet, but which produced more effect upon
his bodily health than all his ordinary annoyances together. Forgotten
suspicions, apprehensions long ago quieted, had been reawakened in
his mind since the ball of the evening before, and still more since
the exhibition of marionettes. The result had been one of the nervous
attacks to which he was liable, whose effect was to distort his
mouth, and give a distinct cast to one of his eyes. As he was very
vain of his beauty--his face, although wasted, was still noble and
regular--especially at the present time, when he was proposing to
be married, he had shut himself up as much as possible since this
disfiguration came on, and was receiving medical treatment, to carry
him through the attack as rapidly as possible.
As soon as he awoke from his slumber, his first care was to look in a
glass which was placed near him. Pleased to find that he had recovered
his natural expression, he said to the physician:
“Come, there’s another one over! I feel as if I had slept well. Did I
dream, doctor?”
“No,” replied the young man, but with some embarrassment at the
falsehood he was telling.
“You don’t say that very frankly,” answered the baron. “Now, if I
talked in my sleep, you must tell me exactly what I said. You know I
insist upon it.”
“You only uttered disconnected words, without meaning. They did not
indicate any distinct thoughts.”
“Then your prescriptions must really be having a good effect. The
physician whom I employed formerly, used to tell me my dreams.
They were strange enough--frightful! I seem to have none now but
insignificant ones.”
“Are you not aware of it yourself, your lordship? Don’t you feel less
fatigued on waking than formerly?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
“That will come in time.”
“I hope so! Now, doctor, you may leave me, if you please; you can go to
bed. If I need you, I will send and have you waked up. I feel as if I
could sleep a while longer. Send me my valet-de-chambre; I will try and
get into bed.”
“My predecessor,” said the young doctor to himself, as he went out,
“heard too much, and repeated too freely what he heard. The baron,
in consequence, was offended; they quarrelled, and the doctor was
persecuted, until he had to leave the country. A good lesson to me!”
Christian, meanwhile, had rejoined M. Goefle, at Stollborg. The
doctor of laws was in great triumph. He had forced the lock of one of
the great wardrobes in the guard-room, and had found some feminine
garments, which were quite magnificent.
“These things,” he said to Christian, “must certainly be a remnant of
the wardrobe of the Baroness Hilda; either forgotten, or religiously
preserved by Stenson. They will do nicely for costumes, they are so
thoroughly old-fashioned. They belong twenty years back, at least. See
if you can’t get into one of them. The baroness was tall, and it’s
no harm if your dress should be a little short. I mean to contrive a
sultan’s dress for myself, with my pelisse and a turban of some kind.
You can help me get one up, Christian; you are an artist. Every artist
must know how to make a turban.”
Christian was not at all intoxicated, and the burglarious performance
of M. Goefle rather disturbed him.
“People are always accusing persons in my line of such things,” he
said, “and generally with some reason. You will see that this will make
me trouble.”
“Bah! bah! I am here,” cried M. Goefle; “I will take all the
responsibility. Come, Christian, put on this dress! Try it, at any
rate!”
“My dear M. Goefle,” said Christian, “just let me swallow something or
other, no matter what; I am dying of hunger.”
“Sure enough! But be quick.”
“Besides,” said Christian, who, standing as he was, began at the same
time to eat his supper and to examine the clothes that were displayed
before him, “I don’t know how it is, but I feel a sort of reluctance to
touch those old relics. The fate of that poor Baroness Hilda was such a
sad one! Do you know that I have been growing more and more suspicious
about the manner of her death?”
“Go to the devil!” answered M. Goefle. “I am not in the mood for
figuring over all those old stories now. I want to laugh and fly about.
Come, come, Christian, to work! let those melancholy notions go over
until to-morrow. See--put on this polonaise dress; it’s splendid. If
you can only get your shoulders through it, the rest will come right of
itself.”
“I don’t believe I can,” said Christian, as he put his hand into one of
the pockets. “But what a little hand she must have had, to go into such
a small place as that.”
“And you as well, it seems!”
“Yes, but I can’t draw mine out again. Stay, what’s this! Why, a note!”
“Let’s see, let’s see!” cried the doctor of laws; “that must be very
curious!”
“No,” said Christian, “we ought not to read it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know--it seems like a profanation.”
“In that case, I have been guilty of a great many--it’s part of my
trade to rummage secret family archives.”
And M. Goefle seized the old yellow paper, and read as follows:
“MY DEARLY BELOVED HILDA:
“I have just reached Stockholm, and find the Count de Rosenstein here.
I shall not be obliged, therefore, to go on to Colmar, and shall
set out on my return on the 10th instant, to embrace you again, and
comfort you, and take care of you, and to indulge with you in new
dreams of happiness, since God has once more blessed our union. I send
you this by express, to put you at ease about my journey, which was
not all unpleasant, though so fatiguing that I congratulated myself
more than once upon my prudence in not bringing you with me, in the
situation in which you are. As far as to Falun, I had to ride on
horseback the whole way. Farewell, then, my love, until the 15th or
16th, at latest. We shall have no lawsuit with Rosenstein; it will be
all arranged.
“I love you.
“ADELSTAN DE WALDEMORA.”
“M. Goefle,” said Christian to the lawyer, who was silently refolding
the dress, “does it not seem to you horribly sad to find this letter
of love and conjugal happiness among the clothes of this dead lady?”
“It is melancholy!” replied M. Goefle, taking off his spectacles and
his extempore turban. “And so very strange! Do you know that this
letter has set me to thinking? But the poor baroness was mistaken; she
was not pregnant, for she made a voluntary declaration to that effect;
Stenson told me so to-day. He was present when she signed it. But let’s
see the date of that letter.”
M. Goefle replaced his spectacles, and read: “Stockholm, 5th March,
1746.”
“Yes,” he continued, “that agrees, if I remember right. Pshaw! That
story is too sad for a man who wants to amuse himself. But I will
keep the note, however; it might suggest something. I will examine my
father’s papers again. But come, Christian, have you given up the idea
of disguising yourself?”
“With those old clothes that smell of the grave? Yes indeed! they have
chilled me to the marrow of my bones. She was virtuous, cultivated and
beautiful, you told me this morning; the pearl of Dalecarlia! And she
died quite young, did she not?”
“At twenty-five or twenty-six; about ten months after the date of this
note: it was in March, 1746, that Baron Adelstan was assassinated.
These are probably the last words he ever wrote to his wife, and
probably that is the reason she carried the letter in her pocket until
her death.”
“How unfortunate she was!” said Christian. “A young wife, a young
mother, suddenly left a widow and childless; and then to die a victim
to the baron’s hatred--”
“Oh, there is no proof whatever of that! But hark to the firing! The
race is beginning, and here we are talking over matters that have no
interest for anybody, and which, after all, are none of our business.
If you feel melancholy this evening, my boy, stay at home; for my part,
I want to run about. I must get out into the air. I have done too much
dreaming to-day.”
Christian would really have preferred to remain at home, but M. Goefle
was so excited that he was rather afraid to let him go alone; so he
said:
“Come, let us give up the disguises. It will not do for us to be seen
together with our faces uncovered, so let us both go masked. You shall
be Christian Waldo, as you are the best dressed; and as I have been
taken for my assistant once already to-night, I will be Puffo.”
“Very well imagined!” cried M. Goefle. “Come along! By the way, we will
leave the light burning for Master Nils; he may wake up, and then he
will be frightened, and perhaps hungry. I will leave a leg of chicken
here under his nose.”
“Little Nils! Is he here again?”
“Why yes, certainly! The first thing I did, on returning, was to go and
hunt him up in the stable, bring him in here, undress him, and put him
to bed. The young monkey would have frozen before morning, out in that
straw.”
“Had he come to his senses at all?”
“Oh, perfectly; at least enough to complain that I troubled him
dreadfully, and to grumble while I was putting him to bed.”
“And where can Puffo be? I did not see him in the stable when I put
Jean in there again.”
“I did not see him, either; he must have gone to get drunk again with
Ulphilas. Well, much good may it do them! It is almost midnight; let us
go. You will help me harness my horse. Ah! you may be sure that my good
Loki will not come in last.”
“But will they not recognize you from your horse and sleigh?”
“No, there’s nothing particular about the sleigh. It is true that I
bought the horse in this neighborhood only last year; but we will cover
him up with his travelling-cloth.”
The goal selected for the race proposed by the baron, and intrusted to
the superintendence of Major Larrson, was the _hogar_ which stood
at the further end of the lake, about half a league from Stollborg and
the new chateau. These two buildings, as we have said, were quite near
each other, the one being built on an island not far from the shore,
and the other on the shore itself. A hogar is a tumulus, or mound,
such as are supposed to have been used as burial-places by the ancient
Scandinavian chiefs. They are usually round, and very steep. The top
is flat, and formerly, it is said, platforms were erected upon them,
where the barbarian kings pronounced judgment, using them as courts of
justice. They are met with in all parts of Sweden, and, indeed, are
exceedingly numerous.
The one at which the race was to terminate presented a fantastic
appearance; it had been crowned with a triple row of torches of resin,
and through their dark red flames, and clouds of smoke, a gigantic
white figure was visible, towering on high. This was a statue of snow,
formless and colossal, which the peasants had built up during the day,
by order of the baron. Knowing perfectly well the surname that had been
conferred upon him, he had banteringly promised the ladies to show
them, by way of a surprise, a portrait of himself upon the top of the
mound. The rudeness of the work harmonized with the savage features
of the landscape, and recalled the idols of former ages, with their
large heads and short rough garments, which, according to tradition,
represented Thor, the Scandinavian Jupiter, holding the terrible hammer
above his crowned head.
This white colossus, seeming to float up in the air, had a very
impressive effect, and no one regretted having ventured out into the
cold night air to enjoy so strange a spectacle. There was an aurora
borealis, pale, and contending with the light of the moon; but the
alternations of color, and the waves of rising and falling light,
which characterize this phenomenon, gave the landscape a shifting
uncertainty of outline, and cast over it a changing play of lights and
shadows which it is impossible to describe. Christian fancied that he
was dreaming; and he repeated over and over again to M. Goefle that
this strange scenery, notwithstanding the inclemency of the climate,
appealed to his imagination more powerfully than anything he had seen
in all his travels.
The exercises of the race had already begun when our two friends joined
the party, and they drove along the flank of the other vehicles, so
as not to interfere with their prearranged order. The ice had been
carefully examined, and the road, marked out by colossal torches, wound
past the points of rock and islets covered with pines and birch-trees,
which dotted the surface of the lake. A phalanx of richly-ornamented
sleighs, four abreast, flew along the course like arrows; the skill of
the drivers, and the perfect training of the horses, maintaining them
at exactly the same distance from each other.
Towards the shore where the hogar stood the lake was deeper than
elsewhere, and presented a broad expanse, perfectly level and
unobstructed. On reaching this, all the sleighs came to a halt in a
semicircle, and the young people who were to compete for the prize took
their places in a line, ready for the signal. The ladies, and older
gentlemen, left their vehicles, and ascended a little island, prepared
for the purpose by being thickly laid with pine boughs, where they
would be able to behold and judge the prowess of the competing parties
without danger of freezing their feet. A great fire, built upon the
rocks behind the natural gallery where the audience was thus assembled,
cast a powerful red glow over the whole scene.
The picture presented by the assembled company was not less strange
than the landscape which served as its frame. Everybody wore masks, and
found them a comfortable defence against the coldness of the air. For a
similar reason, all the costumes were heavy, and well furred; but this
did not prevent a great display of gold, embroidery, and glittering
weapons. The racers were plainly visible in their light, uncovered
sleighs, which represented fantastic images of different animals:
gigantic silver swans with red beaks, dolphins of green and gold,
fishes with tails curved over their backs, and so on. Major Larrson was
mounted on a frightful dragon, and was himself disguised as a monster,
crowned with glittering thunderbolts. The judges who were to award the
prize could be seen moving to and fro on the top of the hogar, costumed
as antique warriors with winged helmets, or with hoods having a horn
over each ear, as Odin is represented in his costume of ceremony; that
is to say, in all the splendor of his divinity.
Christian tried to recognize Margaret among the ladies, who were
disguised as sibyls, or barbarian queens. He could not succeed; and
from that moment the whole ceremonial, without losing its brilliancy,
lost all interest for him, except as a mere spectacle. M. Goefle,
however, who did not feel the same disappointment, continued very much
excited.
“Christian,” he cried, “in spite of our costumes, which are no
costumes, and our sleigh, which is only a sleigh, why should we not
take a place in the line? Because my brave Loki has no plumes, nor
stuffed birds, nor horns on his head, will that make his legs any the
worse?”
“That is for you to say, doctor,” replied Christian; “you know him; you
can tell whether he will cover us with glory or with shame.”
“It will be with glory; I know it.”
“Go on, then.”
“But the poor fellow will be tired. He will get heated, and God only
knows whether he will not have inflammation of the lungs!”
“Don’t go, then.”
“The devil take your indifference, Christian! For my part, my hands are
burning to try it.”
“Try it, then!”
“But for a sensible man like me to run his horse’s legs off, just to
beat a parcel of boys! It’s absurd, Christian, isn’t it?”
“It is, if you think so; it all depends upon the degree of intoxication
with which we go into such amusements.”
“We’ll go!” exclaimed M. Goefle; “to resist the suggestions of
intoxication is to be reasonable; that is, to be stupid. Get up, Loki!”
“Wait!” cried Christian, jumping out of the sleigh. “Let me take off
his head-cover. How can he run with his nose muffled up like that?”
“Very true, Christian; thank you, my boy, but be quick! they are all
ready.”
Scarcely had the doctor of laws spoken before a firework, placed upon
another islet at the rear of the course, went off with a formidable
noise. It was the signal for starting.
“Go on! go on!” cried Christian to M. Goefle, who would have held in
Loki until the young man had resumed his seat; “you are losing time!”
He encouraged the horse, who set off at the top of his speed, while
Christian remained with the head-cover in his hand, watching the career
of the advocate and his faithful Loki. He did not look after them very
long, however. As he moved a little to one side to get out of the way
of the remaining horses, who, excited by the fireworks and the example
of their companions who had joined in the race, were stepping about in
a very lively way, he found himself close to a blue and silver sleigh,
which he recognized as Margaret’s. This light vehicle was modelled
in the spreading shape of a carriage-body of the time of Louis XV.,
and was mounted, or rather set down upon runners, so that it was easy
to look, without any effort whatever, directly through the glasses,
which were now slightly incrusted by frost. Supposing, of course, that
Margaret was upon the rocky audience gallery with her companions,
Christian did not expect to find her within. Still he looked, all
the same, and, to his surprise, beheld her in her usual costume, and
without a mask. A little indisposed, or pretending to be so, she had
remained alone, and was watching the race through the door of the
sleigh. The driver had taken a place a little aside from the rest, and
had turned the sleigh in such a way as to give Margaret a good view of
the course; and this also enabled Christian to gaze at Margaret and to
be quite near her, without being seen by the rest of the company, who
were, besides, absorbed in gazing at the race.
He would not have ventured to speak to her, and he took pains to assume
a careless attitude, as if his being there was quite accidental, when
she suddenly lowered the glass to speak to him. He was still holding
the head-gear of the horse, and she took him for a servant.
“Tell me, my friend,” she said, in a low voice, though without any
affectation, “who is that man in a black mask like yours, who just
passed, and who is racing now? It is your master, is it not, Christian
Waldo?”
“No, mademoiselle,” replied Christian, in French, and without changing
his voice or accent, “I am Christian Waldo!”
“Ah, _mon Dieu_! how fortunate!” replied the young girl, with an
intonation of joy that she could not repress; and lowering her voice
still more, for Christian had come close up to the door, “is it you, M.
Christian Goefle? What suggested to you to assume that character this
evening?”
“Perhaps it was in order to remain here without compromising my uncle,”
he replied.
“Then you did care a little about staying?” she rejoined, in a tone
that made Christian’s heart beat.
He had not the courage to reply that he did not care; it was more than
he could do; but he felt that it was time to put an end to a comedy
so dangerous, if not to the young countess, at least to himself, and,
with an effort of truthful self-sacrifice that made him dizzy, he said
promptly:
“I wanted to stay so as to undeceive you. I am not the person you
supposed. I am what I tell you, Christian Waldo.”
“I do not understand,” she said; “is it not enough to have mystified me
once? Why do you wish to play another part? Do you suppose I did not
recognize your voice when you were performing with Christian Waldo’s
marionettes with so much spirit? I saw very plainly that you were more
brilliant than he--”
“But what makes you believe that?” said Christian, astonished; “to whom
do you suppose you were listening this evening?”
“To you and to him. There were two voices, I am sure, perhaps
three--yours, Waldo’s, and that of his assistant.”
“There were only two, I give you my word.”
“Very well, what then? I tell you I recognized yours. You cannot
deceive me as to that.”
“Why, no; my voice is my voice; I do not deny that; but I must tell
you--”
“Listen! listen!” exclaimed Margaret; “do you hear? They are
proclaiming the name of the victor. It is Christian Waldo, I
think--yes, yes, I am sure of it. I hear it distinctly, and I can
plainly see the man in the mask, standing up, in his little black
sleigh. That is he! He is the real one. You are only a counterfeit
Waldo. But really, M. Goefle, you ought to take his place; the best
things in the whole play, and the best delivered--and, above all, the
entire part of Alonzo--were yours! Come now, let me hear you venture to
assert that I am mistaken!”
“As to the part of Alonzo, I cannot deny that.”
“Shall you play again to-morrow, M. Goefle?”
“Certainly.”
“That will be very kind of you! For my part, I thank you; but are you
quite sure that no one will suspect who you are? You must keep yourself
well hidden at Stollborg. I am glad to see that you are so prudent,
and know so well how to disguise yourself. No one could recognize
you, dressed as you are now. But you must go away, please! They are
all getting into their sleighs to drive to the hogar and compliment
the victor. My aunt will certainly join me. No, she is going in the
Russian ambassador’s sleigh. She leaves me alone! A mother would not
have done that, M. Christian. An aunt, and so young and handsome--well,
certainly, she is not much like a mother! Stay; she will surely send M.
Stangstadius to keep me company!”
“M. Stangstadius!” exclaimed Christian, “where is he? I do not see
him--”
“He was simple enough to put on a mask, but nobody can mistake him; if
he were anywhere within sight, you would certainly recognize him. No,
he is not coming, and they are all setting off.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Margaret’s driver, in Dalecarlian, to his young
mistress, “her ladyship your aunt is making me a sign to follow.”
“Do so, then,” she said; “but you are on foot, M. Goefle! Jump up on
the driver’s seat; you cannot go with us otherwise.”
“What will your aunt say?”
Christian asked the question, but he jumped up on the seat
nevertheless, though not without regret that the conversation was
ended. But Margaret closed the side window and opened the one in front,
which was almost even with his face. The sleigh flew noiselessly over
the snow, over which Peterson was driving just outside the beaten
track, for he had lost his place in the regular array. The good fellow
did not understand a single word of French, and the conversation
continued:
“What is happening at the chateau?” asked Christian, hoping to divert
Margaret’s attention from himself. “I have not seen the baron here;
I should have thought he would have been as easily recognized by his
height, as Stangstadius by his gait.”
“He has shut himself up, under the pretence of pressing and unexpected
business. That means that he is worse; no one is deceived by it.
Everybody saw his mouth drawn to one side, and his eye distorted.
Don’t you think he is an extraordinary man, after all, to battle so
with death? He meant to have raced to-night, with the young men, and
he would certainly have won the prize, he has such splendid horses!
There is to be a bear-hunt to-morrow, and either the baron will be at
the hunt and will kill his bear, or he will be buried before any one
has thought of countermanding the sport. One is just as possible as
the other. Does not that make the situation here very singular for all
of us? It seems as if the Snow Man took pleasure in seeing how few
friends he has, since we all go on amusing ourselves in his house, as
if nothing were the matter.”
“But, Margaret, you admire his resolution, and he succeeds in
producing, even upon you, the effect he desires.”
“My dear confidant,” said Margaret, gayly, “you must know that my
aversion for the baron has almost entirely ceased. He has become quite
indifferent to me; he is going to marry--but that is a secret that I
discovered accidentally, and have promised to keep. He is not going to
marry me, at all events, and I shall have the happiness of remaining
free--and poor--”
“Poor! I thought you were at least very well off.”
“Well, it turns out that I have nothing. I have had a quarrel with my
aunt to-day--as usual, about the baron; and she has declared that she
would give me no portion, and that she should take possession of the
little inheritance which my father left me; she claims to have a right
to it on account of some loan that she made him, of I don’t know how
many ducats. I did not understand anything about it, except that I am
ruined!”
“Ah, Margaret!” exclaimed Christian, involuntarily, “why am I not rich
and well born? Understand me,” he continued, taking her hand, for she
started, and seemed inclined to throw herself upon the further seat of
the sleigh, “this is not a declaration, I am not so audacious as to
address you in any such way. It would be an act of madness in me, for
I have nothing in the world, and neither family nor position. But you
have permitted me to be your friend. May I not tell you that, if I were
rich and noble, I would divide with you as I would with my sister?”
“Thank you, Christian,” answered Margaret, still trembling, although
reassured; “I see how good your heart is, and I know how kindly you
feel towards me. But why do you say that you have no family, when your
uncle’s reputation is so high--”
She paused, and added, with a forced laugh:
“You must not suppose I meant to say--what certainly I had no thought
of. But no, you will not think anything of the kind; you have too much
good sense. You are straightforward and confiding, like me; and you
will understand that, if I question you, it is because I am interested
about your future prosperity--no matter who may share it with you. Tell
me, then, why do you torment yourself about your birth, which many
people would envy?”
“Ah, Margaret,” said Christian, “you wish to know, and it is my wish to
tell you. Here we are at the end of our ride, and I shall leave you,
this time, forever. I will not secure a place in your memory at the
price of a lie. To be despised and forgotten is all I deserve from you,
and I accept my fate--so much the worse for me. Believe me, there is
no such person as Christian Goefle. M. Goefle never had either son or
nephew.”
“That is not true!” exclaimed Margaret. “He said so to-day at the
chateau; and everybody was talking about it, but nobody believed him.
You are his son--by a secret marriage. He will acknowledge and cherish
you. He cannot help doing it.”
“I swear to you, upon my honor, that I am absolutely nothing to him;
and that yesterday morning he knew no more of me than you know now!”
“Upon your honor! You swear upon your honor? But if you are not
Christian Goefle, I do not know you at all! Nor is there any reason why
I should believe you. If you are Christian Waldo, who, they say, can
assume any human voice--ah, I cannot understand it! But it distresses
me very much. Thank God! I still doubt--”
“Doubt no longer, Margaret!” said Christian, jumping down from his
seat as the sleigh, at that moment, stopped. “Look at me, and know me
for what I really am: a man who has dedicated to you the profoundest
respect, the most absolute devotion of his heart, and who swears to
you, upon his honor, that he is the real Christian Waldo!”
As he spoke, Christian lifted his silken mask from his forehead, moved
resolutely into the light of the lantern, and showed his face plainly
as he bent towards the door. Margaret, recognizing her friend of the
previous evening, uttered a cry of grief, perhaps even too expressive,
and covered her face with her hands, while Christian, lowering his mask
once more, disappeared in the crowd of servants and peasants who were
assembled to look at the sport.
He very soon approached M. Goefle, whom they were talking of carrying
in triumph; not because he had reached the goal first--he was, in fact,
the last to arrive--but for performing a brilliant and unexpected
feat. He had caught with his whip, while going at full speedy the
wig of M. Stangstadius, who had deposited himself, in spite of his
opposition, upon Major Larrson’s sleigh. M. Goefle had not, of course,
done this intentionally. The end of his whip-lash, as he was cracking
it in the air, had happened to entangle itself around the queue of the
wig, by one of those chances which we call improbable, because they
happen say only once in a thousand times. The learned man’s hat, jerked
off by M. Goefle’s efforts to free his whip, had flown off and settled
down like a great black bird in the snow; the wig had held fast to the
queue, the queue had refused to part with the whip-lash, and the whip,
which M. Goefle could not stop to adjust, thus ending in a mass of hair
heavy with powder, lost all its effect upon the sides of the spirited
Loki. In the first moments of his triumph, the victorious Larrson had
seen nothing of this; but the outcries and complaints of Stangstadius,
who, with his head tied up in a handkerchief, was demanding his wig
from every one he could see, soon attracted his attention.
“He’s the man!” shouted the insulted geologist, pointing to M. Goefle
in his mask. “That Italian buffoon, in a silk mask. He did it on
purpose, the rascal! Here, here, you scoundrel of a play-actor! I’ll
slap your face a hundred times, to teach you to joke with a man like
me.”
An immense burst of laughter greeted the wrath of Stangstadius, and the
whole assembly shouted with applause the name of Christian Waldo; but
the scene quickly changed. Stangstadius, irritated by the impertinent
laughter of the young people, darted towards the ravisher of his wig,
who was standing erect upon his sleigh, piteously exhibiting the cause
of his defeat, which looked not unlike a great fish at the end of a
line. M. Goefle, in an assumed voice, began to accuse Stangstadius,
in a comic manner, of having played off this trick on him, so as to
prevent him from whipping his horse and winning the race; but the man
of science, who was as nimble as a monkey, in spite of his unequal legs
and crooked arms, scrambled up behind him, snatched off his hat and
his mask, and only paused in his projects of vengeance, on recognizing
with surprise his friend Goefle, who was instantly saluted with
unanimous applause.
Though M. Goefle was not known to all who were present, his name was
repeated by a number of persons, and he was heartily greeted. The
Swedes are very proud of their eminent men, especially in any pursuit
that brings their native language into notice. Besides, the honorable
character of the doctor of laws, and his reputation as a man of talent,
secured him the respect and affection of all young people. They
insisted on proclaiming him the victor in the race, and it was all he
could do to prevent the good-natured major from transferring the prize
to him. This was a drinking-horn, curiously carved and ornamented
with Runic characters, in silver; a fac-simile of a precious relic of
antiquity belonging to the baron’s collection, and discovered in the
course of excavations made in the hogar some years before.
“No, my dear major,” said M. Goefle, putting his now useless mask into
his pocket, while Stangstadius replaced his wig upon his head, “I only
ran for honor; and since my honor, or rather that of my horse, has not
been tarnished by the few seconds’ delay caused by that unlucky wig, I
have nothing more to wish for. I am proud of Loki, and satisfied with
myself. I should be still better contented,” he added, as he stepped
out of the sleigh, “if I knew what had become of the poor fellow’s
head-cover; he will catch cold.”
“Here it is,” said Christian in a low voice, approaching M. Goefle;
“but since you have been recognized, I must take myself off at once,
my dear uncle. It was well enough for Christian Waldo to have a masked
servant, but in your case, it would be quite out of character.”
“No, no, Christian, I will not part with you!” said M. Goefle. “We will
take a look at the lake from the top of the hogar, and then go back to
Stollborg. Stay, we’ll give my horse to one of those peasants to hold,
and then make the ascent. Take this side-path, and keep out of the way
of the curious. A black mask, just now, is noticed by everybody; and I
see, unless we make our escape, that we shall soon be surrounded and
cross-questioned.”