WHILE Christian and M. Goefle adroitly escaped behind the mound, the
main body of the company returned to the new chateau; the hogar was so
steep, and the cold so great, that they would not venture to ascend
it. And yet, in an excavation half way up, a sort of tent had been
prepared, in which the revellers were expected to take punch; but the
ladies had declined, and most of the gentlemen followed them. In about
half an hour, when Christian and the lawyer were coming down from
the platform, where the statue, too much heated by the flames of the
resinous torches, was beginning to melt, they had the curiosity to look
into this grotto, which had been hung and closed in with tarred cloths.
They found nobody there but Larrson and his lieutenant. All the other
young men, slaves either to their lady-loves, who had returned to the
chateau, or to their horses, who were in danger of taking cold, had
gone, or were about going. Osmund Larrson was an amiable young man, who
tried with all his might to be a Frenchman in wit and manners, but who,
fortunately for himself, was at heart devotedly patriotic. Lieutenant
Erwin Osburn was one of those good-natured, blunt, decided characters,
who are unable even to make an effort to produce any modification
in themselves. He had all the qualities of an excellent officer and
citizen, with the good-nature of a man who is in perfect health, and
who does not trouble himself about what does not concern him. Larrson
was his friend, his leader, his idol. He followed him like his shadow,
and never so much as stirred a finger without his advice. He had even
consulted him in the selection of a sweetheart.
As soon as the two friends saw M. Goefle, they hastened to lay hold of
him, swearing that he should not leave the hogar until he had done them
the honor to drink with them. The punch was ready, and only needed to
be set on fire.
“I want to be able to say,” cried Larrson, “that I drank in the hogar
of the lake on the nights of December 26th and 27th, with two men so
celebrated in different professions as M. Edmund Goefle and Christian
Waldo.”
“Christian Waldo!” said M. Goefle, “where are you going to find him?”
“There! behind you. He’s disguised like a poor devil, and masked; but
it’s he, all the same. He has lost one of his great ugly gloves, and
I recognize his white hand. I saw it at Stockholm, and observed it so
attentively that I should know it again amongst a thousand! See now,
M. Christian Waldo, you have a very handsome hand, but it has one
peculiarity; the little finger of your left hand is slightly curved
under, and you cannot quite straighten it, even when you hold your hand
wide open. Do you not remember at Stockholm an officer who saw you
rescue a little cabin-boy from three furious drunken sailors? It was
down at the park; you had come out of your exhibition, and were still
masked. Your servant had run away. The child would have been killed but
for you. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Christian; “you were the officer who passed.
You drew your sword, and put the drunken rascals to flight, and then
insisted upon taking me with you in your carriage. If it had not been
for you I might have been killed.”
“Then there would have been one noble-hearted man the less,” said
Larrson. “Won’t you give me one more shake of the hand, as you did
then?”
“With all my heart!” said Christian, grasping the major’s hand.
Then, removing his mask, he said to M. Goefle:
“It is not my custom to hide my face from persons who inspire me with
confidence and affection.”
“What!” exclaimed the major and his lieutenant, “Christian Goefle, our
friend of last night?”
“No; Christian Waldo, who had stolen the name of M. Goefle, and whom
M. Goefle has been good enough to pardon for a great impertinence. I
recognized you at once last evening, major.”
“Ah, very good! You attended the ball in spite of the prejudices of the
baron, who, perhaps, had not had the good taste to invite you?”
“But it is nowhere customary to receive as a guest a person who is paid
by the master of the house to entertain his guests. I should really
have had no reason to complain if I had been put out of doors, and it
was folly in me to expose myself to such a danger. Still, I had an
excuse; my object in travelling is to observe the countries through
which I pass, so as to remember and describe them. I am a sort of
note-taking scribbler and observer; by which I do not mean, however,
a diplomatic spy. I study the fine arts and sciences even more than
manners and customs, but I am interested in all sorts of things; and
as I have seen something of society elsewhere, I took a fancy to
behold it once more in all its luxury--a strange anomaly--in the midst
of the mountains and lakes and ice of a country that is apparently
inaccessible. But my face seems greatly to have displeased the baron,
and accordingly I wore my mask at his house to-day. You advised me last
evening not to return thither at all.”
“And we should so advise you still, dear Christian,” said the major,
“if the baron had remembered the incident of last night, but his
illness appears to have made him forget it. However, look out for his
servants. Cover your face again, and talk French, for here are some of
them now, bringing us the punch; they may have seen you at the ball.”
A vast silver bowl, full of flaming punch, was now placed upon the
table of rough granite, and the major did the honors with much spirit;
but M. Goefle, an instant before so animated, had suddenly fallen into
a brown study, and, as in the morning, seemed to be divided between the
desire of making merry and that of solving some problem.
“What are you thinking about, my dear uncle?” said Christian, filling
his glass. “Do you blame me for having thrown aside my incognito before
these good friends?”
“By no means,” answered the lawyer; “and if you permit, I will repeat
your story succinctly to these gentlemen, so as to convince them that
they are right in admitting you to their friendship.”
“Yes, yes! the history of Christian Waldo!” cried the two officers. “It
must be very curious; and if it ought to be kept secret, we swear upon
our honor--”
“But it is too long,” said Christian. “I am going to stop here at least
two days longer. Let us appoint a rendezvous where it will be safer and
warmer.”
“Right,” said M. Goefle. “Gentlemen, come and see us at Stollborg
to-morrow; we will have dinner or supper together.”
“But to-morrow,” replied the major, “is the bear-hunt. Will you not
come, both of you?”
“Both? No; I am no hunter, and I don’t like bears. And it is not in
Christian’s line, either. Suppose a bear should bite off one of his
hands; he finds two none too many to work his marionettes. Show me your
hand, Christian. That is a singular crook of your little finger. I
never noticed it. It is from a hurt, is it not?”
“No,” said Christian; “I was born so.”
And holding out his left hand, he added:
“This is the most striking; but still, both my hands have the
same defect in a slight degree. However, it gives me no sort of
inconvenience.”
“Singular; very singular!” repeated M. Goefle, scratching his chin, as
he habitually did when he was puzzled.
“Not so very singular,” said Christian; “I have observed this trifling
deformity in other people. For instance, I noticed it in the Baron de
Waldemora, and much more obvious than in me.”
“Yes, by Jove! precisely! That is just what I was thinking about.
His two little fingers are quite closed down. Had you observed it,
gentlemen?”
“Very often,” said Larrson; “and before Christian Waldo, who gives
almost all his earnings to the poor, it may be said, without any
allusion being suspected, that such closed fingers are reckoned a sign
of avarice.”
“And yet,” said M. Goefle, “the baron is not close about money. I
know it might be said, in his case, that his love of display is an
additional reason for coveting riches at any cost; but his father was
very disinterested, and his brother generous to excess. So the shut
fingers prove nothing.”
“Had the baron’s father and brother this same peculiarity?” asked
Christian.
“Yes, and very marked, as I have understood. And one day, as I was
studying the family portraits, I was quite surprised to find several
of his ancestors with the same crooked fingers. Is not that a very
singular thing?”
“Let us hope,” observed Christian, “that I shall never be like the
baron in any other respect. But as to the bear-hunt, even if I should
lose both my _deformed_ hands, I am dying to be one of the party.
I shall make a point of going.”
“Come with us!” cried Larrson; “I will call for you in the morning.”
“Early?”
“Why, certainly; before daylight.”
“That is to say,” said Christian, smiling, “a little before noon.”
“You calumniate our sun,” said the lieutenant; “it will rise in seven
or eight hours from this time.”
“Well, then, let’s go to bed.”
“To bed!” cried M. Goefle; “already? The punch wouldn’t let you
sleep, even then. I’m only beginning to recover from my emotion over
Stangstadius’s wig. Let me have time to breathe, Christian. I thought
you were better company. You are not at all merry to-night, do you
know?”
“I confess it; I am as melancholy as an Englishman,” said Christian.
“Why so, nephew? for I shall insist upon it in private that you are my
nephew, though I so shamefully disowned you in public. What makes you
melancholy?”
“I don’t know at all, my dear uncle, unless it is that I am beginning
to turn into a mountebank.”
“Explain your aphorism.”
“I have been travelling with my marionettes three months; it is too
long. At another period of my life, which I have described to you, I
followed the same occupation for about that time, and I felt--though
in a less degree, for I was younger--the same result as now. I have
moments of great excitement, but my spirits are correspondingly low
afterwards; I think of my work with disgust and indifference; when
actually performing, I am carried away by a feverish play of fancy,
a sort of overflow of gayety or emotion; and as soon as I take off
my mask and become an ordinary person again, I am overwhelmed with
despondency and self-contempt.”
“Pshaw! all that is my own case, exactly; arguing cases affects me in
just that way. Every orator or actor, every artist or professional man,
who is obliged to be hard at work for half his life in instructing,
enlightening, or amusing others, as soon as the curtain falls is weary
of the whole human race and of himself. If I am good-humored and happy
at present, it is only because I have been idle for four or five days.
You should see me in my own home, on returning from court! You should
hear me then, scolding at my housekeeper for not bringing the tea
promptly enough, at the clients who are besieging me, at the doors of
my house for creaking! Everything irritates me. Finally, I sit down in
an arm-chair, take up some book of history or philosophy, or a novel,
and very soon go happily to sleep in entire forgetfulness of my cursed
profession.”
“You sleep happily, M. Goefle; it is because, in spite of the
excitement of your nerves, you feel that you have been doing something
earnest and useful.”
“Hm! Hm! Not always! One cannot always argue on the right side, and
even in pleading the very best cause, one cannot be always sure of
using arguments that are exactly just and true. Believe me, Christian,
although the saying is that no occupation is foolish, I say that all
occupations are so; so it makes little difference which of them you
adopt. Do not despise your own, for such as it is, it is a hundred
times more moral than mine.”
“Oh! oh! M. Goefle, what a paradox that is! Come, let us hear you argue
it! You can use plenty of eloquence there.”
“No eloquence, my children,” said M. Goefle, as the two officers and
Christian urged him to give rein to his imagination; “there would be
no use in sophisticating; and besides, I am taking a vacation. But
I tell you in perfect good faith, that the art of story-telling is
superior to all others. It is incontestably the first in point of time,
for as soon as men could talk they invented mythologies, composed
poems, and recited histories; and it is the first in moral usefulness,
too--I am ready to maintain it against the whole university, and even
Stangstadius himself, who believes nothing but what he can touch.
Man never learns by experience. You may teach him authentic history
as much as you please, and, in spite of it, he will continually
reenact--on a higher level, if you choose, corresponding to his grade
of civilization--the same faults and follies as ever. Do we even learn
by our own experience? I know well enough that I shall be ill to-morrow
for having played the young man to-night, and you see how much I care
for it. It is not reason which controls man, it is imagination--fancy.
That is, it is art, poetry, music, painting, the drama. Wait,
gentlemen, let me empty my glass before I proceed to my second head.”
“Your health, M. Goefle!” cried the three friends.
“And yours, my children! Well, to proceed: I do not consider Christian
Waldo as a showman of marionettes? What is a marionette? A bit of wood
covered with a rag. It is the intellect and the soul of Christian which
give interest and significance to his pieces. I look on him as not
merely an actor, for he has to do something more than vary his accent
and change his voice every moment, in order to move his audience; that
is a mere trick of his trade. He is an author as well, for his plays
are little masterpieces. They remind one of those short, exquisite
musical pieces which illustrious composers of the Italian and German
schools have written for theatres like his. ‘Music for children,’ they
modestly call it, but it has always been the delight of connoisseurs.
Then, gentlemen, let us render justice to Christian Waldo.”
“Yes! yes!” cried the two officers, enthusiastic under the influence of
their punch; “long live Christian Waldo! He is a man of genius!”
“Not at all,” said Christian, laughing, “but I see now what makes
my uncle despise the profession of law so much. It enables him
to maintain, and to make other people believe, the most enormous
misrepresentations.”
“Hush, nephew! It’s not your turn to speak! I say--but, Christian, you
are an ungrateful fellow! You are not a lawyer, and yet you complain!
You can investigate the abstract truth embodied in all kinds of
fictions, and yet you grow tired of making men love it! You possess
intellect, a good heart, education, and knowledge of the world, and
here you are calling yourself a mountebank, just to depreciate your
work, and perhaps to abandon it! Wretch! is that your purpose?”
“Yes, that is my intention,” said Christian, “I have had enough of it.
I did suppose I could keep it up longer, but I find that my constant
incognito wearies me; it seems discreditable to a man of my real
character. I must find the means of travelling without begging. I have
already devoted much thought to this subject--it is a great problem
to a man without means. A person who lives in one place can always
find work; he who desires to move about, finds it difficult to do so,
nowadays. In ancient times, M. Goefle, to travel was to make conquest
of the earth for the good of humanity; it was recognized as a high
mission, as the vocation of superior minds. The traveller, accordingly,
was a sacred being in the eyes of all people. They greeted his arrival
with respect, and resorted to him for news of other countries, and of
the general progress of humanity. At present, if the traveller has not
sufficient means of his own, he must become either a beggar, a thief,
or a strolling player.”
“Why do you use such a contemptuous term?” said M. Goefle; “the object
of the actor (I should prefer to call him interpreter, since his
object is to interpret works of the imagination) is to lead men’s minds
away from the merely practical; and since the majority of our stupid
race are essentially prosaic, and absorbed in their material interests,
the tyrants who govern public opinion discourage both poets and their
interpreters. If they dared, they would still more emphatically
discourage preachers, who speak to them of heaven, and religion, which
wars against selfish passions, and is, in fact, a system of idealism.
No one objects to idealism when presented as a revealed truth, for no
one dares. But it is promptly rejected when it only says, ‘I come to
demonstrate to you the beautiful and good, by means of symbols and
fables.’”
“And yet,” said Christian, “the sacred books are full of apologues. It
is the preaching suited to an age of faith and simplicity. But it does
not seem to me, M. Goefle, that the cause of the prejudice is exactly
where you have placed it, or if it be, it is only in virtue of a fact
to which I would draw your attention. The actor has no real connection
with the rest of society. He does nothing intrinsically useful as an
actor, and men’s valuations of each other are based upon an exchange of
services intrinsically useful. Remember, all the other professions are
intimately concerned with the destiny of every individual in society,
even that of the priest; for even to infidels he is still an official
indispensable to their civic state. Other professional persons are
each, at one time or another, the hope or support of every man. To
the physician, he looks for health; the lawyer represents the gaining
of his cause; the speculator is to give him a fortune; the tradesman
provides him provisions; the soldier protects him; the scientific
man promotes the success of his business by making discoveries; the
professor of any of the branches of human knowledge is ready to
instruct him for some employment or other; the actor alone discourses
upon all subjects, but supplies him with nothing--unless it be good
advice, which the auditor had to pay for at the door, when he could
have given it to himself gratis.”
“Well, well!” cried M. Goefle, “what are you quibbling about, then? We
agree perfectly--you are only proving what I said. The vulgar always
despise imagination and sentiment.”
“Not exactly that, M. Goefle. It is unfruitful sentiment--unproductive
imagination--which they despise! There is a good deal of justice in the
opinion of the bourgeois, who might say to the actor, ‘You discourse
to me about virtue, love, devotion, reason, courage, happiness! Yes,
for that is your trade; but since this is all you can do, you must not
object to being set down by me as an idle babbler. If you are anything
more, come down from your platform, and help me to arrange my own
affairs as well as you arrange the plots of your plays. Cure my gout;
gain my lawsuit; enrich my firm; marry my daughter to the man she
loves; find a good position for my son-in-law. If you can’t do any of
these things, make me a pair of shoes, pave my court-yard. Do something
or other to earn the money I have paid you.’”
“And you conclude from this?” said M. Goefle.
“I conclude that every one ought to have an employment in which he can
be directly useful to others; and that the prejudice which prevails
against actors will cease at once, when theatres shall be free
institutions, and when all persons of ability and dramatic gifts shall
be prepared to do their part as actors for the love of art, whenever
they may be called upon, whatever may be their usual occupation.”
“Well, anyhow, that is a dream that goes far beyond any of my
paradoxes.”
“I don’t deny it; but nobody believed in the existence of America two
hundred years ago; and it is my opinion that in two hundred years more,
we shall see things far more extraordinary than we dream of now in our
wildest imaginings.”
This conclusion reached, the friends drank the remainder of the punch,
and Christian would have taken leave of M. Goefle, who seemed inclined
to go and dance a _courante_ at the new chateau with the young
officers. However, the doctor of laws would not part from his young
friend, who was really in need of rest; and after having agreed to meet
next day, or rather the same day, for it was now two o’clock in the
morning, the party went in search of their respective vehicles.
“Well, Christian,” said M. Goefle, when they were seated side by side
in the sleigh, on their way back to Stollborg, “were you in earnest
in what you said about?--by the way, I notice that I have fallen into
a habit, I don’t know how, of addressing you very familiarly by your
given name.”
“Please to continue it, M. Goefle, it is very pleasant to me.”
“But I am not old enough to take liberties of that kind--I am not sixty
yet, Christian; I don’t want you to consider me a patriarch.”
“God forbid! But I considered the liberty you speak of as a mark of
friendship.”
“So it is, my son. Well, in that case I will let ceremony go; tell me--”
Here M. Goefle paused so long that Christian thought he was asleep; but
he aroused himself, and said suddenly:
“Tell me, Christian, if you were rich what would you do with your
money?”
“Do?” said the young man, surprised; “I should try to make as many
people as possible partakers in my happiness.”
“Then it would make you happy?”
“Yes. I would make a voyage round the world.”
“And then?”
“Then?--I don’t know--I would write an account of my travels.”
“And then?”
“I would marry, and have some children. I am very fond of children.”
“And would you leave Sweden?”
“Who knows? I have no ties to bind me anywhere. The deuce take me
if--don’t think I am exaggerating, for I am not intoxicated--but, M.
Goefle, I feel a very warm affection for you, and I’ll be hanged if
the pleasure of living near you would not have a great deal to do with
forming my resolution! But what is the use of talking about it? I have
no taste for building castles in Spain, and have never anticipated
being rich. In two days I shall go, I don’t know whither, and perhaps
shall never return.”
When the two friends reached the bear-room, they had so entirely
forgotten about its being haunted, that they went to bed and to sleep,
without even remembering to renew their consultation concerning the
apparition of the previous night.
They tried, for a while, to keep on talking after they had gone to bed;
but, though M. Goefle was still somewhat excited, and though Christian
answered his remarks with all the good-nature in the world, sleep
very soon descended upon the young man like an avalanche of feathers;
and the doctor, after scolding a little at Nils, who was snoring loud
enough to break the windows, finally went to sleep himself.
It was at just about this time that the Baron de Waldemora awoke, at
the new chateau. Johan, on entering the room according to order, found
him sitting on the bed, half dressed.
“It is three o’clock, your lordship,” said the major-domo; “have you
had any sleep?”
“I have slept, Johan, but very poorly; I have been dreaming about those
puppets all night long.”
“Well, my dear master, your dreams can’t have been very sad, then.
Those puppets were very amusing.”
“You thought so, did you? Oh, very well!”
“Why, you laughed at them yourself.”
“Oh yes; one must always laugh, of course. Life is one long, perpetual
laugh. A melancholy one, Johan!”
“Ah, master, no black thoughts! What are your orders?”
“None. If I am to die to-day, who can hinder it?”
“Die? What the devil put that into your head? You are looking capitally
this morning.”
“But if I should be assassinated?”
“Who would think of any such thing?”
“A good many people. And especially the unknown who came to the ball;
he whose face and whose threat--”
“That counterfeit nephew of the advocate? I can’t imagine why that
fellow’s face should torment you so. It was not in the least like--”
“Be still! you never saw clearly in your life; you are near-sighted!”
“No I am not, indeed.”
“A man insolent enough to look me in the face and defy me, in my own
house, before everybody!”
“You have been served so more than once before, and have always laughed
at it.”
“And this time I fell, as if struck by a thunderbolt.”
“It’s that cursed anniversary. You know it makes you ill every year;
and afterwards you forget all about it.”
“I don’t reproach myself for anything, Johan.”
“The devil! Did you think I was reproaching you for anything?”
“But what can be the matter with this poor head of mine, to make me
have these visions?”
“Pshaw! It’s the height of the cold season; everybody sees them.”
“Do you ever?”
“I? no, never. I eat a great deal; but you--you eat nothing at all. By
the way, you ought to have something now; some tea, at least.”
“Not yet. What do you think of this Italian’s story?”
“That Tebaldo? You haven’t told me the first word of it.”
“Very true. Well, I will not, either.”
“Why?”
“It’s too absurd. Still--do you believe Lawyer Goefle is my enemy? He
may be.”
“I can’t see why.”
“Nor I either. I have always paid him handsomely, and his father was
quite devoted to me.”
“And besides, M. Goefle is a man of mind; a fine speaker; a man of the
world, and without prejudices, believe me.”
“You are mistaken. He will not bring suit against Rosenstein. He says I
am in the wrong; he opposed me yesterday. I hate that Goefle!”
“Already? Pshaw! wait a little. Offer him an uncommonly large fee, and
he’ll find out that you are in the right, after all.”
“I did; and got a very disagreeable answer. I tell you I hate him!”
“Very well, then--what do you choose to have _happen to him_?”
“I don’t know yet. We will see. But old Stenson?”
“Old Stenson? What about him?”
“Do you believe he could have betrayed me?”
“When?”
“That is not what I asked you. Do you think him capable of
dissimulation?”
“I think he’s an idiot.”
“You are an idiot yourself. He is shrewder than you, or than I either,
perhaps. Ah! if that Italian’s story should be true!”
“Then you don’t mean that I shall know it? Very well; go on tormenting
yourself. Make your own investigations, and let me go back to bed.”
“Johan, you are scolding me!” said the baron, with extraordinary
mildness. “Be satisfied; you shall know all.”
“Oh yes; when you want something of me!”
“I shall want you immediately. This Italian must be made to produce his
proofs, if he has any. Was nothing found on him?”
“Nothing. I searched him myself.”
“He told me that he did not have them with him. And what could he have
had? Do you remember that Manasses?”
“I should think so! That old fellow who used to sell his merchandise
here; and at high prices, too!”
“He is dead.”
“All the same to me.”
“This Italian killed him.”
“What a ridiculous idea! For what?”
“To rob him, probably, and to get a certain letter.”
“From whom?”
“Stenson.”
“An interesting one?”
“Why yes, most certainly, if it contains what this rascal pretends it
does.”
“Well, tell me what it was, if you want me to understand.”
The baron and his confidant continued their conversation, but in such
low tones that the walls themselves could not have overheard them. The
baron was agitated; Johan shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” said the latter, when his master concluded, “it’s a story that
would put you to sleep standing up. This blackguard of a Tebaldo has
forged it from the reports that are circulating through the country, so
as to make money out of you.”
“He says that he never put foot in Sweden before yesterday, and that he
came direct from Holland by way of Drontheim.”
“Possibly; but what of that? He may have picked up his information
accidentally somewhere in the neighborhood. So many stories are told
about you! And perhaps, in some of his travels, he really did meet this
old Manasses, who knew all about them before.”
“Well, what shall we do about it?”
“You must frighten M. Italian, and not allow yourself to be
black-mailed. You must promise him--”
“How much?”
“Two or three hours in our _chamber of roses_.”
“He will think it a mere threat. He has heard, no doubt, that racks and
wheels were abolished in Sweden, under the old bishop.”
“Do you suppose the captain of the great tower needs any such old
rubbish to help him find a tongue in a man of flesh and bones?”
“Then you think--”
“Cover him all up with roses until he confesses that he has lied, or
else tells where he has concealed his evidence.”
“Impossible! He will yell, and the castle is full of people.”
“But the hunt? You must go to it whether alive or dead; every one will
follow you.”
“Somebody always stays, if it be only some one’s servants. And then
the old women--they will be whispering about that I am exerting an
authority which the state has strictly reserved for itself.”
“Oh, nonsense! Don’t trouble yourself about them. Besides, I will
arrange all that; I will say it is a poor devil whose leg has been
crushed, and who is being operated upon.”
“And will you receive his information?”
“Certainly. Who else.”
“I should prefer to be there myself.”
“You know you are so soft-hearted that you can’t bear to see any one in
pain.”
“Very true; it puts my stomach and bowels out of order. Well, I’ll be
off at the hunt.”
“Do so; and in the meanwhile go to sleep again. I will see to
everything.”
“And will you find the unknown?”
“He must be a confederate of this fellow. We shall only find him
through Tebaldo’s confessions.”
“Right; it must be so, for he offered to deliver him up to me--But it
may not be the same man?”
“Well, I will confess him thoroughly on all points, so sleep in peace.”
“Have you kept your Italian fasting?”
“Why, of course!”
“Go, then; I will try to get a little more sleep. You have done me a
great deal of good, Johan. You always have suggestions to make. For my
part, I am failing. _Mon Dieu!_ How fast I have grown old.”
Johan now departed, directing Jacob to call his lordship at eight.
Jacob was a valet-de-chambre who always slept in a room next the
baron’s sleeping-room. He was an honest fellow, to whom the baron had
always played the part of a good master; for he knew how important it
is to have some trustworthy people about one, if only for the sake of
sleeping without fear, under their guard.
Christian, in the meanwhile, who always slept well, wherever or in
whatever company he was, awoke after about six hours’ rest, and
arose softly, to look out at the sky. It was not yet daylight, but
as the young man was about to lie down again, he remembered the
hunting-party, which they were probably already beginning to organize
at the new chateau. Christian was no hunter, except with reference to
natural history. He was a capital shot, but had never had a passion
for slaughtering game merely to kill time and show his skill; but a
bear-hunt was something new, picturesque, and also interesting from a
zoölogical point of view. At the thought of it he was instantly wide
awake, and fully intent upon witnessing this novel spectacle, although
he might possibly find it necessary to return before it was quite over,
in order to prepare for his evening’s performance with M. Goefle.
Before going to sleep, he had said something on the subject to the
doctor of laws, but he was opposed to his going, since he did not care
anything about the hunt himself. Christian accordingly foresaw that
his good uncle would try to stop him, and, knowing his own compliant
disposition, he also foresaw that he should yield.
“Pshaw!” he said to himself; “I had better slip off quietly, and leave
a couple of words in pencil for him, to keep him from being uneasy. He
will, perhaps, be a little annoyed, and he will not like breakfasting
alone, but he has still some work to do; he has to visit old Stenson
again, and I shall probably be back before he begins to feel lonely.”
So Christian stepped softly from the guard-room to the bear-room, where
he dressed himself. Then, after putting on his mask under his hat,
partly from habit and partly as a precaution, he went out by way of
the _gaard_, now plunged in silence and darkness. Thence, passing
through the fruit-garden, standing in its wintry desolation, he reached
the lake, and finding that he was much nearer the shore at this point
than if he had descended by the path on the northern side, he crossed
the narrow space of ice, and proceeded by land towards the new chateau.
At this very moment, Johan was advancing across the lake from the
opposite direction; without the least suspicion of the recent flight of
his game, he was coming to take up his post of observation at Stollborg.