WHILE the young people at the new chateau were enjoying their innocent
games, M. Goefle and Christian were making all sorts of comments upon
the discoveries relative to his birth which the latter thought he had
made. M. Goefle did not agree with his young friend. His ideas, he
said, were altogether fanciful, and more ingenious than logical. For
his own part, he seemed more than ever tormented by some idea which he
at the same time wished and feared to explain.
“Christian, Christian!” he said, shaking his head, “do not torment
yourself by dwelling on this nightmare. No, no; you are not the son of
Baron Olaus! I would stake putting my hand in the fire on that.”
“And yet,” replied Christian, “is it not true that there is a certain
resemblance between his features and mine? When he had fainted, and
while his blood was dropping on the snow, his cruel and sardonic face
assumed the expression of supreme repose which is given by death, and
I gazed upon him in terror. No man, it is true (or so it seems to me),
at least unless he has passed all his life before a mirror, or is a
portrait-painter, can have a very exact idea of his own appearance;
but still his face seemed familiar to me in a vague sort of way, and
gradually it began to appear like my own. I had the same feeling when I
saw him for the first time. I did not say to myself, ‘I have seen him
somewhere;’ I said, ‘I know him, I have always known him.’”
“Well, well,” said M. Goefle, “and I too, by heavens! when I saw
you the first time, noticed the same thing. And now again, at this
very moment, when your face is serious and abstracted, I recognize,
if not a resemblance, at least a similarity of outline that is
striking--extraordinary. But it is precisely that, my dear friend,
which makes me tell you: ‘No, you are not his son!’”
“Really, M. Goefle, I do not understand you at all.”
“Oh! that is not your case alone! I don’t understand myself. And yet
I have an idea, a fixed idea!--If that obstinate Stenson would only
speak! But it was all in vain that I tormented him again to-day for
two hours; he told me nothing of the slightest importance. Either he
begins to wander at moments, or he pretends resolutely to be deaf and
abstracted, when he does not wish to answer. If I had heard of this
Karine, and had known that she was mixed up in our affairs, I might,
perhaps, have drawn something out of him, at least in regard to her.
You say that the danneman’s son pretends that she could tell a great
many secrets if she chose. Unluckily, she also is crazy, it seems,
or else so intimidated and enfeebled that she is afraid to confess!
However, it is absolutely necessary that we succeed in clearing up our
doubts, for either I am a fool, Christian, or you are now in your own
country, and perhaps are upon the point of discovering who you are.
Come, then! think, help me! that is, listen to me. Your appearance at
the new chateau has caused a great deal of trouble and anxiety there,
and you must know--”
At this moment some one knocked at the door, after having tried in vain
to open it without knocking. M. Goefle, unobserved by Christian, had
cautiously drawn the bolt. Christian was going to open the door, when
M. Goefle stopped him.
“Go under the staircase,” he said, “and leave me to manage this
business.”
Christian, who was exceedingly preoccupied, obeyed mechanically, and
M. Goefle went to open the door, but without allowing the unexpected
visitor to enter. It was Johan.
“You again!” he said curtly, and in a severe tone. “What do you want,
Monsieur Johan?”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Goefle, I want to speak to Christian Waldo.”
“He is not here.”
“He has, however, returned here; I know it, Monsieur Goefle.”
“Look for him, but not in my apartment. I am at work, and wish to be
quiet. This is the third time that you have disturbed me.”
“I ask a thousand pardons, monsieur, but since you share your room with
him, I thought I might come again to convey his lordship’s orders to
this comedian.”
“His orders--what orders?”
“In the first place, to get ready his entertainment; then to be at the
new chateau at eight precisely, as yesterday; and, in conclusion, to
play something very gay.”
“You repeat yourself, my good fellow; you have already told me the same
thing twice, and in precisely the same terms--But are you sure that you
know what you are saying? Is not the baron seriously ill this evening?
While you are prowling round the old chateau like a shadow, are you
aware of what is occurring at the new chateau?”
“I have just seen his lordship this very moment,” replied Johan, with
his eternal smile of impertinent humility. “His lordship is quite well;
and it is because he sent me here that I am forced, to my great regret,
to be excessively importunate. Notwithstanding, I must add that his
lordship is very desirous of conversing with the honorable M. Goefle
during the comedy of marionettes.”
“Very good; I will attend to it. I wish you good-evening.”
Thereupon M. Goefle shut the door in the face of the disappointed Johan.
“Why all these precautions?” said Christian, coming from his retreat,
where he had listened to this dialogue.
“Because something is going on here--I was about to tell you so when
we were interrupted--that I do not understand. All day long, this
Johan--the most detestable wretch alive, if I can judge from his
appearance, and from Stenson’s opinion--has done nothing but prowl
around Stollborg, and you are the object of his curiosity. In the
first place he questioned Stenson about you, who does not know you at
all, and who only learned to-day (precisely from this Johan) that you
and I were both of us stopping here. Then he had a long talk in the
stable with your servant Puffo, and another in the kitchen of the
_gaard_, with Ulphilas. He would have made Nils talk if I had not
kept him close by me the whole day. I really believe this spy tried to
make your ass confess.”
“Luckily, my honest Jean is discretion itself,” said Christian. “But
I do not see why the efforts of this lackey to see my face should
make you uneasy. Since I have worn a mask, I have been accustomed to
excite just such curiosity; but I intend to have done forever with
this puerile mystery and with these childish persecutions. As I am
obliged to return to the chateau this evening, I will go with my face
uncovered.”
“No, Christian, you must not do that; I forbid it. You must be
patient for a few days longer! An important secret is challenging our
investigation; it is our business to discover it, and I will discover
it, or lose my reputation; but you must not show your face. You must
not even let Ulph see you again. You are certainly threatened by some
danger. Johan, with his stealthy, sidelong glance, is not the only
person I have seen gliding about the passages of Stollborg. Either I am
very much mistaken, or I noticed a thorough blackguard walking around
the donjon on the ice, at just about nightfall--a certain fellow who
has been honored by the baron his master with the fantastic name of
Captain Chimère. With our comedy last evening, we may have put fire
to powder. The baron unquestionably is suspicious about you, for some
cause or other; and if you will take my advice, you will pretend to be
ill, and not go to the new chateau at all.”
“Oh, as to that, Monsieur Goefle, I beg your pardon, but the baron
cannot frighten me, no matter what he may do. If I am so fortunate as
not to be related to him, I am in precisely the mood to defy him, and
to squeeze vigorously any hand that ventures so much as to touch the
tapestry of my theatre, if I choose to remain incognito. Remember that
I have killed two bears to-day, and consequently that my nerves are a
little excited. Come, come, pardon me, my dear uncle, but it is getting
late, and I have only two hours to prepare for my exhibition. I am
going to look for a play in my library; that is to say, in the bottom
of my box, and you must be so good as to play it with me, somehow or
other.”
“Christian, I don’t feel like it to-day. I am no longer an actor, but
a lawyer; that is to say, a seeker of actual facts, to the very marrow
of the bones. Your servant Puffo did not seem to me to be very drunk
when I saw him, and he is here, no doubt, in the _gaard_. Stay, I
am going out, and I will call him as I pass, and send him to help you,
since you insist upon performing. It will do no harm, perhaps--it will
keep you busy, and may avert suspicions. Puffo is devoted to you, is he
not?”
“I don’t know, I am sure.”
“But if they should try to fasten a quarrel upon you, he would not
leave you in the lurch? He is not a coward?”
“I don’t think so: but feel no anxiety upon that point, Monsieur
Goefle. This good Norwegian knife, which my friends lent me for the
hunt, is still by my side, and I answer for it that I will make myself
respected without the help of any one.”
“Beware of a surprise. That is the only thing I am afraid of for you.
For my part, I cannot remain quiet for two minutes. Since you have told
me about a child brought up secretly at the danneman’s house, a child
with fingers like yours--”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Christian, “I only dreamed the whole story,
perhaps; and, at any rate, I must not think about it now. I see at the
bottom of this box my poor little marionettes, whom I am now going to
exhibit for the last time, or the time before the last; for this, M.
Goefle, is the only real and sensible conclusion to which I have been
led by all my reflections. I will give up the fool’s cap, and take the
hammer of the miner, the axe of the wood-cutter, or the whip of the
travelling peasant! And for the rest, I laugh at it! What difference
does it make, whether I am the son of an amiable fairy or a wicked
iarl? I will be the son of my works; and one need not rack one’s brains
to come to a conclusion so simple and so logical.”
“That is right, Christian, that is right!” cried M. Goefle. “I love to
hear you talk so; but still, for all that, I have my idea--I hold on to
it, I dig into it, I feed it, and now I am going to give it an airing.
It may be absurd, but still it is possible! I feel a constant anxiety
to see Stenson; I will tear his secret from him! I know, at present,
how to set to work. I will return in an hour at the most, and we will
go together to the chateau. I will call on the baron to find out what
he wants with me, and will observe him carefully. He thinks himself
shrewd, but I will be shrewder than he. Yes, that’s the idea--courage!
Au revoir, Christian! Come, Nils, light me.--Ah, stay, Christian! here,
it seems to me, is Master Puffo!”
In fact, M. Goefle passed Puffo as he went out.
“So, here you are!” said Christian to his servant. “Are you doing
better to-day?”
“I am doing capitally, master,” replied the Livornese, in an even ruder
tone than usual.
“Well then, my lad, to work! we have not a moment to lose. We shall
play _The Marriage of Folly_, the piece that you know best: you
know it by heart, and will not need a rehearsal.”
“No, if you don’t put in too many of your new gags.”
“I’ll do as I choose about that; but I will not fail to give you your
cues, so don’t be alarmed. Go at once to the new chateau with the ass
and baggage; put up the theatre, arrange the scenery. Stay--since we
have selected the piece, you may as well take the manuscript. For my
part, I will dress the actors, and follow you. If you must absolutely
run through the scenes, we shall have time enough over there. The
audience, you know, always takes a quarter of an hour to find seats and
get quiet.”
Puffo started to go out; but, after taking a few steps, paused and
hesitated. Johan, while keeping him a prisoner at Stollborg without his
knowing it, had aroused him against his master by his insinuations, and
Puffo was impatient to get into a quarrel with him. Still, he knew him
to be agile and determined, and perhaps also a feeling of involuntary
affection for Christian had glided, unperceived, into some hidden
corner of his brutal and corrupt soul. He took courage, however.
“That is not all, Master Christian,” he said; “I want to know who the
rascal was who exhibited the marionettes with you last evening?”
“Oh, ho!” replied Christian, “you are beginning to be uneasy, are you?
What makes you suspect that there was any performance last evening?”
“I know there was one, and that I took no part in it.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I was a little drunk,” said Puffo, raising his voice, “I confess; but
I have heard the truth to-day, and I know all about it.”
“The truth,” said Christian, laughing; “would not one say that I had
concealed it from your excellency? I have not seen you to-day, Signor
Puffo, and even if I had, I am not aware that I owe you an account--”
“I want to know who took the liberty of touching my marionettes?”
“_Your_ marionettes, which belong to me, though you seem to forget
it, will tell you, perhaps; ask them.”
“I don’t need to question them to know that some one or other took the
liberty of replacing me, and, apparently, of earning my wages.”
“Suppose it were so? were you in condition to say a single word last
evening?”
“You ought, at least, to have tried me, or else to have given me
warning.”
“I must confess that I did not show you that consideration,” replied
Christian, impatiently; “but I omitted to do so on purpose, so as
to avoid the temptation of punishing you, as you deserved, for your
drunkenness.”
“Punishing me!” cried Puffo, advancing upon him in a threatening
manner. “Try it a little! Come on!”
At the same time he caught up a marionette, and brandished it over his
master’s head like a club. The weapon, though comical, was none the
less dangerous, for the head of the _burattino_ is necessarily
made of very hard wood, so as to prevent it from being broken in the
stage fights. Holding the little figure by its leathern skirt, and
hurling it like a flail, Puffo might have broken his adversary’s head,
and, perhaps, wished to do so. Christian seized the marionette as it
came, and, with the other hand, caught Puffo by the throat, and threw
him at his feet.
“Cursed drunkard!” he said, putting his knee on his breast, “you
deserve a sound beating, but I scorn to strike you. Off with you! I
discharge you on the spot, and never want to hear of you again. I have
paid you your week’s wages, and owe you nothing; but as you may have
spent it all for drink, I will give you enough to return to Stockholm.
Get up, and don’t try any more of your deviltries, or I will strangle
you!”
Puffo, who was a good deal bruised, got up in silence. Though brutal,
he was not naturally an assassin, and he was humiliated and cowed.
Perhaps he felt that he was in the wrong; but his first and great
anxiety was to pick up a dozen pieces of gold that had slipped from his
belt, and rolled over the floor.
“What is that?” cried Christian, noticing what he was about, and
seizing him by the arm. “Stolen money?”
“No!” cried the Livornese, lifting his hand with an heroic gesture,
which was sufficiently absurd; “I have not stolen anything here. That
money is mine. They gave it to me.”
“What for? Come, speak--I insist upon it!”
“They gave it to me because they wanted to. It is nobody’s business.”
“Who gave it to you? Was it not?--”
Christian paused, fearing to betray suspicions which it was more
prudent to conceal.
“Out of my sight!” he said, “and go quickly; for if I discover that you
are something worse than a drunkard, I will kill you on the spot! Go,
and woe to you if you ever let me see you again!”
Puffo retreated in a great fright. Christian, to keep him at a
distance, had laid his hand, purposely, on the major’s large Norwegian
knife, and the sight of this terrible weapon was quite sufficient to
alarm the Bohemian, whose great fear was that Christian would take
his money from him, and insist upon knowing how he had obtained this
unexplained wealth.
The Livornese left the donjon in a very undecided state of mind.
Johan, who sometimes took the liberty of exceeding the baron’s secret
instructions, had not given him this money with a precise understanding
that he was to undertake what the trembling Puffo, in the language
of the road, called _a bad job_; but to persuade him to remain
quiet in case his master should be provoked, and drawn into some
unequal scuffle. Johan had got everything out of him that he knew;
he had learned, through him, that Christian was fiery and intrepid.
Without compromising the baron, he had given him to understand that
his master had offended some very powerful person at the chateau, and
that they had discovered him to be a French spy, and a very mysterious
and dangerous person. The lie, although glaring, was not sufficiently
gross to have much effect upon Puffo, for he did not know or care
anything about politics; but what he did understand was, the sum of
money slipped into his pocket. He was intelligent enough to follow out
the following course of reasoning: “If they pay me for standing by,
they will pay me more for acting!” Accordingly, he resolved to get the
start of any one else. He attacked Christian, supposing that he would
be without weapons, or means of defence; but he lost courage, and,
perhaps, also faltered a little in his wicked purpose. Christian was so
good, that the scoundrel’s hand trembled, in spite of himself. Now that
he was defeated and humiliated, what should he do?
While Puffo was reflecting to the best of his very limited ability,
Christian, more depressed and fatigued in mind than in body, sat down
to his coffee, and sank into a melancholy revery.
“What a sad life!” he said to himself, gazing mechanically upon the
marionette lying upon the floor, which had come so near cutting his
head open. “What poor company men without education are! And yet I
shall have to be with them now more than ever! If I return to the
dregs of the people, whence I probably emerged, after trying in vain
to elevate my condition, I shall often be obliged, I suppose, to put
down, by the force of my fist, brutal wretches like this Puffo, who
cannot be influenced by kindness and affection. Oh, Jean Jacques! was
it such a life as this that you dreamed of for your Emile? And yet you
yourself were stoned in your humble chalet, and were forced to abandon
the rustic life you loved, because you could not make yourself feared
by those who were incapable of comprehending you!
“Come, let me see you! Which of you was it who came so near killing me
just now?” he continued, raising his voice to revive his spirits, and
picking up the marionette, which was lying with its face to the floor.
“O Jupiter! you, my poor little Stentarello! you, my favorite, my
protégé, my best servant! you, the oldest of my troupe, lost at Paris
and found again so miraculously in the forests of Bohemia! No, it is
impossible! you would not have harmed me; you would rather have turned
against the assassin. You are worth much more than a host of gigantic
marionettes I know of; stupid and wicked marionettes, who claim to
belong to the human race, and whose hearts are as hard as their heads.
Come, my little friend, put on a white collar, and let me brush your
coat, which is covered with dust. I swear that I will never again
abandon you! You shall travel with me, though it must be in secret,
since otherwise serious people would laugh at us. But still you shall
go, and when you feel sad and lonely, because you miss the blaze of the
footlights, we two will talk together and console each other. I will
confide my sorrows to you, and your sweet smile and bright eyes will
recall to my mind the follies of the past; the dreams of love born and
vanished within the gloomy walls of Stollborg!”
A child’s laugh made Christian start and turn round. It was Master
Nils, who had come in on tip-toe, and who was jumping with joy and
clapping his hands at the sight of the animated, and, as it were,
living marionette, moving and gesticulating on Christian’s nimble
fingers.
“Oh! give me that pretty little boy,” cried the delighted child; “lend
him to me a moment, so that I can play with him!”
“No, no!” said Christian, who was in a hurry to arrange Stentarello’s
toilet; “my little boy plays with no one but myself; and besides, there
is no time. Is not M. Goefle coming back?”
“Oh! let me see all that!” resumed the enraptured Nils, casting a
dazzled glance into the box that Christian had just opened, and where
glittered, pell-mell, the laced hats, swords, plumed turbans, and pearl
coronets of his miniature company. Christian tried to get rid of Nils
by gentle means; but the child was so crazy to see and touch all these
wonders, that he was obliged to speak in a loud voice, and roll his
eyes fiercely, to keep him from running away with his actors and their
wardrobe. Then he began to pout, and, going to the other side of the
table, said he would complain to M. Goefle that no one would amuse him.
His aunt Gertrude had told him that he would be amused when he went
travelling, and he wasn’t amused at all.
“But I don’t care for you, you great wretch!” he said, making a face at
Christian; “I am going to make some pretty paper boats, and I won’t let
you see any of them.”
“All right, all right!” replied Christian, who kept at work arranging
the costumes of the marionettes under the supposition that he could
rely on M. Goefle’s assistance; “make your boats, my child; make a
great many of them, and leave me in peace.”
While pinning hats and cloaks to the heads and around the necks of
his little people, Christian glanced every moment at the clock, and
grew impatient for M. Goefle’s return. He wanted to send Nils to the
_gaard_ to beg him to make haste, but Nils pouted, and pretended
not to hear.
“Provided,” said Christian to himself, “we have time to read over the
play once, it will be sufficient; without that, I shall be lucky if
I can recall it myself, I have had so much on my mind to-day. Ah! I
promised the major a hunting-scene; where shall I introduce it? No
matter where! An interlude, stolen from the scene of Moron with the
bears, in the _Princesse d’Elide_. Stentarello shall be brave,
charming; he shall laugh at people who kill bears through a net--like
the baron, for instance. But, good heavens! I hope Puffo has not
carried away the manuscript; I put it in his hands.”
Christian began to search everywhere for his manuscript. To write
another would have required half an hour’s work, and the clock was
striking seven. He rummaged in his box, which contained the whole of
his little repertory. He upset and turned over everything; he was in
a fever. The idea of not going to the new chateau at the appointed
hour; of appearing afraid to encounter the baron’s hatred (for to this
motive his absence might be attributed), was insupportable to him. He
was seized with a sudden rage against his enemy, to which his love,
perhaps, added intensity. He was burning to defy the Snow Man openly in
Margaret’s presence, to show him that an actor was more courageous than
many of the noble guests of his chateau.
Just then he looked at Nils; he was very quiet and serious, being
busily occupied in making what he was pleased to call his little boats.
Around him there was a pile of papers, which he was cutting up for the
purpose. He would take a slip of paper, fold it, refold it, and, if the
boat did not succeed according to his liking, tear it, rumple it up,
and throw it to the floor.
“Ah, bad boy!” cried Christian, snatching from him a handful of torn
fragments; “you are cutting up my manuscript into boats!”
Nils began to cry and scream, declaring that the papers were not
Christian’s, and trying to fight with him to get them back.
Suddenly Christian, who was hastily unfolding the boats to try
and collect the pages of his comedy, became serious, and remained
motionless. These papers, in fact, were not his, the writing was not
his; and yet his name, or rather one of his names, traced by an unknown
hand, had, as it were, riveted his gaze. The first sentence he read
aroused his curiosity to the utmost; and this sentence, written in
Italian, was as follows: “_Christian del Lago is fifteen years old
to-day._”
“Stay!” he said to the child, who kept on teasing, and demanding his
paper, as he called it; “play with the marionettes, and leave me alone.”
Nils, seeing a handful of little men on the table, rushed up to them
with delight, and found enough to do in looking at them and touching
them, while Christian, taking the chair that the child had just left,
and placing the candle by his side, began to decipher the papers before
him, consisting, apparently, of a file of old letters. The writing was
detestable, and the Italian, style and orthography, all of a piece,
but every word which he read, or guessed, seemed to him more and more
extraordinary, and caused him the liveliest amazement.
“Where did you get these papers?” he said to the child, while
continuing to collect the torn and rumpled fragments.
“Ah, monsieur, how handsome you are with your great moustache!” cried
Nils, gazing in ecstasy upon the marionette.
“Answer, will you?” cried Christian; “where did you find these papers?
Do they belong to M. Goefle?”
“No, no,” replied Nils, at last, after making him repeat the question
several times. “I did not take them from M. Goefle; he threw them away,
and the papers he throws away are mine. They are for making boats; M.
Goefle said so this morning.”
“You are telling a story! M. Goefle did not throw these papers away.
These are letters; people do not throw letters away, they keep them, or
they burn them. You took them out of the drawers of this table.”
“No.”
“From the room, then, where he sleeps?”
“No, no!”
“Tell the truth, at once!”
“No!”
“I will pull your ears.”
“No you won’t; I’ll run away.”
Christian stopped Nils, who tried to make his escape with the
marionettes.
“If you tell me the truth,” he said, “I will give you a pretty little
horse with a red and gold saddle-cloth.”
“Let me see it.”
“Now,” said Christian, handing him the plaything, which was one of his
properties, “speak, brat!”
“Well,” said the child, “this is how it was: I went just now, to light
M. Goefle to M. Stenson’s house--you know who I mean, the old man, who,
they say, cannot hear anything, who lives in the other court.”
“Yes, I know; go on quickly, and tell the truth, or I will take back my
horse.”
“Well, I stayed there to wait for M. Goefle; I was in M. Stenson’s
room, where there was a fire, and M. Goefle was in the office next to
it, talking loud to M. Stenson.”
“What were they saying?”
“I don’t know, I did not listen; I was playing making a fire in the
chimney. And then, all at once, some men came into the office, and
they said: ‘Monsieur Stenson, his lordship has been waiting for you
for an hour. Why do you not come? You must come at once!’ And then
they quarrelled about it, and M. Goefle said: ‘M. Stenson cannot go;
he has no time.’ And M. Stenson said: ‘I must go--I am not afraid of
anything--I will go at once.’ And then M. Goefle said: ‘I will go with
you.’ Then I went into the office because I was afraid they were going
to hurt M. Goefle, and there I saw three--or six men, dressed in very
nice livery.”
“Three--or six?”
“Or four--I could not count; I was afraid. But M. Goefle cried out, ‘Go
away with you!’ and he pushed me on to the staircase, and threw this
bundle of papers after me without any one seeing him. Perhaps he did
not want them to know that he gave it to me so, and then I picked it
up, and ran away, and that is all!”
“And you did not tell me, idiot! What if M. Goefle--”
Christian paused, knowing that it was useless to complain, and,
gathering up the papers as quickly as possible, he shut them up in his
box, took the key, and hastened out. The events thickening around him
were becoming more and more incomprehensible, and he felt very anxious
about the lawyer’s situation.
Nils had already burst into a roar at being left alone with the
marionettes, which frightened him a little, fascinating as they were,
when M. Goefle met Christian in the passage, and brought him back into
the bear-room. He was pale and agitated.
“Yes, yes,” he said to Christian, who assailed him with questions,
“fasten the doors. Something serious is going on here. Where is Nils?
Ah, there you are, little one! Where did you put the bundle of papers?”
“He was cutting them up into boats,” said Christian; “here they are,
all torn, but nothing is wanting. I picked up every scrap. But what are
these strange letters about me, Monsieur Goefle?”
“They are about you, are they? Are you sure of it!”
“Perfectly sure.”
“Have you read them?”
“I have not had time. Master Nils made it a difficult task, and then
the writing is villanous; but I am going to read them. M. Goefle, the
secret of my life is there.”
“In truth? Yes, I suspected, I was sure, Christian, that you were the
person they treated of! But I gave my word to Stenson, on receiving
this deposit, not to read the letters before his death or the baron’s.”
“But I, for my part, have made no promise, M. Goefle. Chance has placed
these papers in my hand: I have saved them from destruction; they are
mine.”
“Indeed?” said M. Goefle smiling. “Well, now that I think about it, I
had not finished my oath, after all, when we were interrupted--No, no,
I swore solemnly yesterday, in regard to another deposit; but, as to
this one, I remember now that I had not completed my oath. Besides,
Stenson was about to confide in me fully. I had begun writing my
questions, so as not to have to raise my voice to the poor deaf old
man. I was speaking of you, of my suspicions, and I felt that there
were spies about us. You must have seen some of my writing in pencil,
on the loose sheets?”
“Yes, I did, and thought that must have been the way of it. Read the
letters, then.”
“Letters, are they letters? Give them to me--But no, we ought rather to
hide them. We are surrounded, watched, Christian. At this very moment
I am sure they are rummaging and robbing Stenson’s office. They have
carried off Ulphilas. Who knows whether they will not attack us?”
“Attack us? But, in fact, it is quite possible! Puffo tried just now to
take me by surprise, in the German fashion. He raised his hand upon me,
and he had gold in his pockets. I was obliged to kick the clown out of
doors.”
“And you were wrong. You should have tied him, and shut him up here. He
is now perhaps with the baron’s cutthroats. Come, Christian, we must
find a hiding-place for these papers before attending to anything else!”
“Pshaw! A hiding-place is never of any use.”
“Yes, indeed!”
“Very well then, you find one, Monsieur Goefle, while I make ready my
weapons; that is the surest way. Where are these cutthroats?”
“Who knows? I saw Johan and his band go out with Stenson, and I locked
the door of the court after them. But they may come from the other
side, for the lake is a solid plain now; they may have come already. Do
you hear anything?”
“Nothing. And why, in Heaven’s name, should they come and attack us
here? Say, Monsieur Goefle, let us reason a little about our situation,
and not be alarmed without any cause.”
“You cannot reason about it, Christian, for you have no knowledge to go
upon! As for me, I know--or I think I know--that the baron has fully
resolved to discover who you are, and, when he is satisfied, who can
say what course he will pursue? Possibly they will keep us prisoners
here, until he arrives at some decision. They have just arrested
Stenson--yes, arrested, that is the word. At first, that scoundrel of a
Johan came in and invited him politely enough; but when the terrified
old man hesitated, and when I sought to detain him, the other servants
showed themselves, and if he had resisted, would have carried him off
by force. It was my intention to follow him. I am satisfied that they
would not dare injure him before me, and I proposed to go with him
into the baron’s presence, and, if necessary, to stir up the latter’s
guests against him. In fact I actually did start in advance of them
all, but, under cover of the fog, returned, for, on the other hand, to
leave you alone--I could not make up my mind what to do! If the baron
wants to extort some secret from Stenson, he will begin by wheedling
him, and we shall have time enough to go to his rescue--that thought
decided me. And now, Christian, let us go--Yet stay!--It is absolutely
necessary that we should solve this mystery--that we should know the
real facts of the case before acting! Stand sentinel, then, guard the
door, they will not dare break it open--the devil! I am at home here;
you are right. They will not venture to drag me, as they did that poor
old overseer, before their master. What excuse could they offer?”
“None, most surely; so be tranquil, M. Goefle. This great door is
solid, that of the bed-room is no less so, and I can answer for the
door of the secret chamber; I will guard them. Read, and read quickly.
We, at least, have always an excuse for going to the new chateau, since
they have not countermanded the comedy of marionettes.”
“Yes, yes, certainly, we must know where we stand, and _who we
are_!” cried M. Goefle, exalted by the spirit of investigation,
which is the soul, the inspiration of the lawyer’s profession. “I shall
get through with it sooner than you would, Christian, for arranging
these fragments, and making out these hieroglyphs, is in the regular
course of my business. Five minutes’ patience, I ask no more than
that. As for you, Master Nils, talk low with your marionettes.”
As he spoke, M. Goefle, with remarkable promptness, began arranging
the letters according to their dates, reading them as he went on, and
completing the sense, where it was wanting, with a veritable eagle’s
glance. Every trace, every line of this mysterious package of papers
he examined carefully, sometimes questioning Christian, and sometimes
himself, as if to recall certain facts.
“‘The young man is very happy in his home with the Goffredis--he is
much beloved.’ That refers to you, I should rather think. And yet,
in certain places, he says: ‘My nephew,’ and it is still you he is
speaking of. ‘My nephew has gone into the country, to Lake Perugia,
with the Goffredis. The young man is fifteen years old to-day--He
is tall and strong, and resembles his father--’ Oh, yes, certainly,
Christian, you resemble him.”
“My father? Who, then, is my father?” cried Christian. “Do you know?”
“Stay,” said M. Goefle, “handing him a medallion, which he drew
from his pocket, with much emotion. Look at that. Stenson just
confided it to me. It is a portrait closely resembling the
original--authentic!--Might it not have been taken for you?”
“Heavens!” said Christian, gazing at the beautiful miniature almost
with a feeling of terror; “I don’t know, I am sure! It is a young man,
richly dressed; is it not Baron Olaus in his youth?”
“No, no, God be praised, it is not he! But do not say a word,
Christian, I must read on; I am beginning to understand! In another
letter, you are designated as ‘your nephew,’ and no longer ‘my nephew’;
and in still another, ‘your nephew.’ It is quite evident that it
is a precaution to turn aside suspicions in case the letters are
intercepted, for you are not related either to the man who wrote these
letters, or to Stenson, to whom they are addressed.”
“Stenson! Is it to him, then, that some one has sent this accurate
account of my health, my progress, and my travels? for I saw enough to
understand that this had been done, in turning over the leaves. Here is
a letter in which they speak of my duel; see, it is dated at Rome, one
thousand seven hundred--”
“Wait!--oh, yes, I see it. There is a letter every year. ‘He has had
the misfortune to kill Marco Melfi, who was’--then follow reflections.
‘The cardinal has no wish to be revenged. I hope to discover what has
become of our poor child.’ Ah, here is a letter from Paris: ‘It is
impossible to find him. I might deceive you, but I do not wish to. I
am afraid that he may have been arrested in Italy. While I am looking
for him here, he perhaps is a prisoner in the castle of Saint Angelo!’
Stay, Christian!--don’t be impatient. Here is a letter which must be
more recent. It is dated the sixth of last August, Troppau, Moravia: ‘I
was really upon the right track this time--He took the name of Dulac in
Paris, as I supposed, but he started on a journey, and, most unhappily,
has perished quite recently. I have just been dining at an inn with a
young man named Guido Massarelli, whom I knew in Rome, and who was well
acquainted with him, and he informed me that he had been assassinated
in the forest of’--illegible! ‘I shall give up, therefore, any further
search for him, and as my little commercial transactions require me to
go to Italy, I shall start to-morrow before day-break. Do not send me
any more money to help me on in my travels. You are not rich, for you
have always been honest. That is the case, too, with your servant and
friend, Ma--Mancini--Manucci.’”
“I know no such person!” said Christian.
“Manasses!” cried M. Goefle; “the person whom M. Guido mentioned
yesterday, the little Jew who took such an inexplicable interest in
you.”
“That was not his name,” rejoined Christian.
“No matter, it was the same person, I am sure of it,” said M. Goefle.
“His name was Taddeo Manasses. Stenson told me so yesterday. This is
the only time, in the course of the correspondence, that he signed
either of his names in full, and it was perhaps the last time that the
poor wretch ever dipped his pen into ink; for, according to Massarelli,
he is dead, and I will stake my life upon it that Massarelli
assassinated him. Stay, don’t speak, Christian! On informing Stenson of
his death, Massarelli claimed to be in possession of a terrible secret,
which he wanted to sell him, and threatened, if he would not come to
terms, to carry it to the baron--the proof, no doubt. Was this poor Jew
addicted to drinking?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Well, then, Guido must have assassinated him, for the sake of the
little money he had in his possession. He found, no doubt, some letter
from Stenson on his person, and learning from that of his whereabouts,
came here at once to turn the adventure to account--Besides, this
Massarelli may have given the Jew some narcotic when they dined
together at the inn. But no, since it was after that that the Jew
wrote--but in the evening, or the next day.”
“Alas! what does it matter, Monsieur Goefle? It is quite plain that
Massarelli discovered the secret, whatever it may be, and has revealed
it to the baron; but, as for me, I have not discovered anything as
yet about myself, except that M. Stenson is interested in me, and
that Manasses, or Taddeo, was his confidant, and has faithfully
transmitted to him news about me, and finally, that my existence is
very disagreeable to Baron Olaus. Who am I then, in the name of Heaven?
Do not make me languish any longer, Monsieur Goefle.”
“Ah, patience, patience, my friend!” replied the lawyer, as he sought
a hiding-place for his precious letters; “I cannot tell you yet. I
have been certain of the truth for the last twenty-four hours, as far
as instinct and reason can make me so; but I must have proofs, and
these are not enough. I must get hold of them--where? how? Let me
reflect--if I can! for there is enough here to drive one crazy. Papers
to hide--Stenson in danger--and we too, perhaps! However--oh, yes! this
is the point, Christian: I want to be certain that it is you they have
designs against, for then I shall know positively who you are.”
“It is easy to find out whether the baron’s intentions are what you
suppose. I will go over to the chateau to give my performance as if
nothing were the matter, and if I am attacked, as I am so well armed
to-day, I will try and make my adversaries confess.”
“I really believe,” said M. Goefle, who had finally succeeded in hiding
the letters, “that it would be preferable to run the risk of a fight on
the open lake than to wait here until they run us down in this gloomy
old den. It is already nine o’clock, and we were to have been at the
chateau at eight. Yet they have not sent to know why we are so late.
That is singular! Stay, Christian! Is your gun loaded? Take it; for
my part, I will take my sword. I am neither a Hercules nor a bully;
but I understood fencing in my youth, like all students, and if we are
waylaid and attacked by ruffians, I don’t intend to let them slaughter
me like a calf. Promise me, swear to me, to be prudent. That is all I
ask.”
“I give you my word that I will,” replied Christian. “Come!”
“But that troublesome brat, who has fallen asleep playing, what shall
we do with him?”
“Put him to bed, Monsieur Goefle; I don’t suppose they have any designs
on him.”
“But those cutthroats will kill a child to stop it from crying, and
that young one will yell with all his might; I can answer for that, if
he wakes up and sees strange people about him.”
“Well, the devil take him! I suppose we shall have to carry him with
us. Nothing would be easier, if we don’t meet badly disposed people;
but, if there is any fighting to be done, he will be very much in our
way, and may be injured himself.”
“You are right, Christian; it would be more sensible to leave him in
his bed. If there are spies around, they will soon know that we have
gone out, and they will have no reason for coming in here. Keep your
eye on the door. This time I shall not be very long in putting Master
Nils to bed; he can sleep in his clothes.”