III.
CRISTIANO was acting as we do in certain dreams, when we feel drawn on to accomplish some improbable thing without being able to tell how. Were not all his surroundings utterly improbable? This fantastic chateau, called the new chateau, in opposition to the ruin of Stollborg, but dating back, in reality, to the time of Queen Catherine, and which, with its splendor and gayety, seemed to have fallen from the clouds into the bosom of a savage desert; these avenues of naked rock and furious waters, over which, thanks to the winter, elegant equipages made their way without difficulty, although it seemed as if they must be utterly impassable; the rows of lights outlining against the darkness the principal walls with their thick towers, crowned with coppered roofs surmounted by huge spires; the main building long, irregularly flanked with square pavilions, and finished off with gigantic gables notched with statues and emblems; the great clock in the central pavilion, which was striking ten o’clock at night,—an hour when the very bears are afraid to stir the snow where they lie cowering, but when man, the most delicate animal of creation, dances in silk stockings with bare-shouldered women; everything in the savage grandeur of the situation and the courtly scene filling it with animation, even to the playful and quaint harmony of the old-fashioned French music blending unceremoniously with the sharp whistling of the wind in the long corridors;—all this seemed made to astonish a traveller, and confuse the ideas of an Italian.
As he gazed upon the immense saloons, and long gallery painted with mythological divinities, and full of company and noise, Cristiano asked himself whether these people were not phantoms conjured up in mockery by the sorcerers of this solitary place. Whence had they come, with their antiquated dresses, these men in spangled coats, these women with powdered hair, smiling through clouds of feathers and laces? Would not this magical chateau disappear at the stroke of a wand? these gaydancers of the minuet andchaconne, would they not fly away in the shape of white eagles or wild swans?
Cristiano had already noticed, however, the national peculiarities of the Swedes; the adventurous isolation of their dwellings, the enormous distances separating them from the little settlements honored by the name of village; the straggling appearance of the villages themselves, which sometimes extend over two or three leagues with only one common centre—the parish church, with its green dome; the contempt of the nobility for cities, which they abandon entirely to the trading portion of the community; in a word, their passion for a lonely country life, united, singularly enough, to a passion for wild, extravagant expeditions, undertaken for the sake of enjoying sudden and apparently impossible social gatherings. Cristiano had been invited to a country merry-making, but he had not foreseen that these characteristic instincts of the Swedes would be made more active by the severity of the climate, the length of the nights, and the apparent difficulty of holding communication with each other. This, however, was a natural consequence of the necessity that man always feels to conquer nature, and turn the compensations that she offers him to account. For two months the baron had given notice for fifty leagues around, that he would entertain the nobility of the country during the Christmas festivities. The baron was neither esteemed nor loved by any one; and yet, for a number of days, his chateau had been full of eager guests, who, coming from all the four points of the compass, had crossed lakes, rivers, and mountains, to attend his summons.
Hospitality is proverbial in Dalecarlia, and, like the love of the people for a country life united to their love of pleasure, it increases in proportion as they live in remote and inaccessible regions. Cristiano, who had noticed with what wonderful kindness strangers are received in Sweden—above all, when they speak the language—had scarcely thought how difficult it might prove to gain admission to a soirée where he knew no one, especially since he had not been invited. He was unpleasantly reminded of his oversight byseeing a sort of major-domo, wearing a sword, who came up to him in the hall, and held out his hand with the utmost politeness, after bowing respectfully.
At first Cristiano was going to shake hands with him kindly, under the supposition that it was a custom of the country to welcome people in this way, but he reflected that he might be asking him to produce his invitation. The major-domo was old, ugly, and pock-marked; his eyes were downcast, and their hypocritical expression was poorly disguised by an affectation of gentle apathy. Cristiano put his hand into his vest pocket, although certain of not finding what he wanted. It is true that he had been invited to visit Waldemora at the expense of his host, but not upon the same footing with the gentlemen of the country. He was preparing, therefore, to play the part of a man who has forgotten his card of admission, and who is disposed to return in search of it, with the privilege of not making his appearance again, when he found in his pocket—that is in M. Goefle’s pocket—a letter signed by the baron, which proved to be a regular invitation for the honorable M. Goefle and family, this being the usual formula. As soon as Cristiano saw what it was, he handed it boldly to the major-domo, who read it at a glance.
“Monsieur is the relative of M. Goefle?” he said, putting the letter into a basket with a great many others.
“Of course!” replied Cristiano, with assurance.
M. Johan (this was the name of the major-domo) bowed again, and opened a door upon the main staircase, where the guests stopping at the chateau were coming and going, as well as the neighbors, who, as they were perfectly well known to the servants of the house, were allowed to enter freely. Cristiano’s introduction was confined to this simple formality, which he would have been very glad to dispense with, for he did not propose to take any direct part in the entertainment, but wanted merely to have a general view of it, and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing the charming Margaret.
He entered, first, the long frescoed gallery that traversed the wholeof the main building, and which was decorated with passable success, in imitation of the Italian taste, introduced into Sweden by Queen Christina. The pictures were not good, but they were effective. They represented hunting scenes; and though an artist could not have failed to criticise the drawing and action of the dogs, horses, and wild animals, he could at least have enjoyed the general effect of the brilliant and lively coloring.
Cristiano walked along this gallery until he came to a handsome saloon, where they were beginning to dance. His only thought in looking at the ladies taking part was of Margaret, but his desire to see her was blended with a secret anxiety. How should he renew the conversation begun at Stollborg? how substitute his own character? or, at all events, some new character, no matter what, for the one he had assumed? This no longer appeared to him so easy as he had imagined it would prove on engaging in this wild adventure. He was almost glad to find that Margaret was not in the ball-room; and he took advantage of this respite—for so he felt it to be—to try and form an idea of the company moving before him.
Contrary to his expectation, he found nothing to wonder at. At a first glance, this gathering had none of the peculiarities that he had anticipated. The age, at this period, belonged to Voltaire, and consequently to France. Like most of the European sovereigns, the upper classes in almost every part of Europe had adopted the language, and apparently the philosophical and literary ideas of France. But, as taste, logic, and discernment are always confined to the select few, this infatuation for our ideas gave rise to a great many inconsistencies. For example, the customs and manners of foreign nations reproduced much more frequently the corruption and effeminacy of Versailles than the studious leisure of Ferney. France was the fashion as well as philosophy. Arts, customs, monuments, good breeding, deportment, conduct, were all copied, with more or less success, from the prevailing French fashion. France, with all her contradictoryqualities, good and bad, magnificent and petty, noble and contemptible, was accepted indiscriminately. It was one of those characteristic epochs, when progress and decay shake hands before joining in deadly conflict.
The ball given by Baron Olaus was a mere imitation, a little behind the times, of a French reunion of the eighteenth century; and yet the baron hated France, and was intriguing in the interest of Russia. But in Russia also they imitated France, and spoke the French language; at court they were extremely barbarous, and even ferocious in their manners, and yet they were trying to adopt the gallant manners and intellectual refinement of French civilization. Baron Olaus, therefore, was borne along by the irresistible current of the age. We shall learn his history later. Let us return now to Cristiano.
After looking for a while at the dresses of the ladies, which seemed to him only a few years behind French fashions, and at their faces, which were generally sweet and intelligent, although they were not all young and beautiful, he turned his attention to the gentlemen, and tried to recognize, that is to say to guess among them, the face and figure of the master of the house. Not far from the spot where he was observing all that went on without making himself conspicuous, two men were talking in a low voice, with their backs towards him. Involuntarily Cristiano followed their conversation, although he felt no personal interest in it.
These two men were talking French, one with a Russian, and the other with a Swedish accent. The language of courts and diplomacy seemed to be necessary to enable them to exchange their ideas.
“Pshaw!” said the Swede, “I am not a cap any more than ahat, although I am thought to be at the head of a certain faction of the thickest cotton caps in the Diet. I laugh at them all alike, as a matter of fact; you understand very little about Sweden, if you think more of one than of the others.”
“I know it,” replied the Russian; “they sell their votes to the highest bidder.”
“Bid, then! You have no other policy. It is simple, and for you easy, since yours is a rich government. I am with you heart and soul, without any question of recompense. With me it is a matter of conviction.”
“I know you are not one of those patriots of the golden age, who are dreaming about the Scandinavian union, and that one can always come to an understanding with you. The empress relies upon you, but you need not hope to avoid her liberality; she accepts no service without rewarding it magnificently.”
“I am aware of it,” replied the Swede, with a brutality that struck Cristiano; “I have learned it from experience. Long live the great Catherine! If she wants to put us in her pocket, let her do it; I shall be the last one to offer any opposition. If she will only rid us of all these foolish doctrines about the rights and liberty of the peasants—which are our curse—she will be doing a good work. The citizens and noblemen who are their leaders, ought to be arrested, and have respectively a good taste of the knout, and a good dose of Siberia administered to them. As for our worthy king, if his bishopric is restored to him, and, above all, if he gets rid of his wife, he will have nothing to complain of.”
“Don’t speak so loud,” replied the Russian, “some one may be listening without seeming to.”
“There is no danger. Every one here pretends to speak French, but there are not ten persons out of a hundred who can understand it. Besides, what I have just said, I am in the habit of saying freely. I discovered long ago that it is the best policy to make your opinions feared. For my part, I shout upon the housetops that Sweden is done for. Let those who object prove the contrary.”
Although Cristiano did not belong to any nation, although he knew nothing either of his country or family, he felt indignant to hear a Swede so impudently selling his nationality, and he tried to see the features of the man who could talk so; but his attention was suddenlydiverted by the bustling, awkward approach of an eccentric individual, who was running about from group to group with the activity of a man who is taking pains to do the honors of the entertainment. This individual was dressed in a gaudy red coat, very richly embroidered, and decorated with the Swedish order of the polar star. His wig was frizzed magnificently, in the very worst style, and was much too high for the fashion; while his enormous cuffs of superb lace were more suggestive of luxury than neatness. In other respects he was old, ugly, petulant, and whimsical; slightly hump-backed, very lame, and completely cross-eyed. This last defect gave him, at a first glance, a wicked expression, and Cristiano concluded that this disagreeable original must be one and the same person with Margaret’s absurd and hateful suitor.
To avoid being obliged to introduce himself, and keep up his pretended relationship with M. Goefle, whose name he had assumed unscrupulously and without danger in his interview with the major-domo, Cristiano prudently withdrew. He resolved now to go from room to room until he had seen the young countess, even if he should be obliged to retire immediately, without speaking to her. He imagined that the hump-backed chatelain had looked at him with a good deal of curiosity, but he made his way skilfully through a group of persons who were talking near a door, and flattered himself that he had escaped in time.
He walked along for several minutes, not exactly in a crowd (the place was so large that the guests did not look very numerous), but amid lively groups, which he did not have leisure to observe attentively. Fearing to be questioned before he could find Margaret, he passed with a preoccupied manner and proud expression—which he assumed all the more because he felt his audacity ready to fail him. And yet, whether from curiosity about a guest that no one knew, or because of their admiration for his fine presence and remarkable face, people everywhere seemed inclined to speak to him, or at least to receive his advances favorably. But Cristiano was feeling a sort of vertigo that made himmisunderstand the affable glances and good-humored smiles that were bestowed upon him. He hurried along, therefore, without pretending to disguise that he was seeking some one; to the persons who made way before him, he bowed with an easy grace that was natural to him, but without daring to look at them closely.
At last, on returning to the hunting-gallery, as it was called, he saw two ladies, in whom he immediately recognized the blond fairy whom he had seen at Stollborg an hour before, and her governess. Mademoiselle Potin’s simple dress, timid and refined manner, and a something about her unmistakably French, left no doubt as to her identity. This completed the first part of the little romance that Cristiano had planned. He was at the chateau, he had found no sort of difficulty in getting admitted, he had avoided the observation and questions of the master of the house; and, lastly, he had found Margaret under the kind protection of her confidante. But this was not all. He had still to approach the young countess, or attract her attention, and find some means of renewing their acquaintance on a new footing.
The second part of the romance opened in rather an alarming way. Just as Cristiano, who hoped that a look of Margaret’s would inspire him, was trying to catch her eye, he heard an unequal step clamping along behind him, and a shrill, squeaking voice stopped him short with these words:
“Monsieur! Stranger! stranger! Where are you going so fast?”
The adventurer turned, and found himself face to face with the deformed, cross-eyed old man, whom he thought he had so successfully avoided. It was literally face to face, for the lame man, who was rushing in pursuit of him, could not change his gait quickly enough, and almost fell into his arms. Cristiano might have fled, but that would have been to lose everything; he faced it out boldly, and replied:
“I beg a thousand pardons, baron; you are the very person I was looking for.”
“Ah, indeed!” said the lame man, holding out his hand with sudden cordiality; “I thought as much. I remarked your face among all the others. ‘That is an educated man,’ I said to myself; ‘some learned traveller, a serious person, a mind, in a word, and certainly I am the pole which always attracts such magnets,’ Well, here I am, at your service. It gives me pleasure to devote myself to you. I love young people when they are studious, and you can ask me all the questions that you want to have solved.”
There was so much simplicity and good-humor in the old man’s laughing face and vain talk, that Cristiano in his heart accused Margaret of doing him injustice. He was an absurd and impossible lover, to be sure, but he was the best old fellow in the world, and as harmless as a child. Although one of his eyes did wander about the room in a vague and aimless sort of a way, the other one looked at his companion with such a frank and fatherly expression, that it was utterly out of the question to accuse him of ferocity.
“I am overwhelmed by your goodness, baron,” replied Cristiano, sufficiently reassured to be somewhat ironical. “I knew that you were versed in the sciences, and therefore having myself some feeble notion—”
“You wanted to ask my advice, to have the benefit of my instruction, perhaps. Ah! my dear friend, method, method in all things. But I won’t keep you standing among these frivolous people, who are coming and going; sit down, sit down. No one will disturb us; and, if you feel inclined, we will talk all night. When science is the theme, I forget all about fatigue, hunger, and sleep. You are the same, no doubt. The fact is you must be so, or not meddle with becoming learned!”
“Alas!” thought Cristiano, “I have fallen into the bottom of a well of science, and am condemned to the mines, I wager, neither more nor less than an exile of Siberia.”
This discovery was the more cruel, because Margaret had passed on, andwas already at the end of the gallery, chatting with one and another of the persons who came forward to greet her, and evidently going to the ball-room, where the baron did not seem at all inclined to join her. He was seated in one of the semicircular embrasures of the gallery, near a stove, concealed by some branches of yew and ivy, which, with various hunting weapons and stuffed heads of wild animals, formed a trophy.
“I see,” said Cristiano, who would have given a great deal to avoid the proposed scientific conversation, “that you are a universal genius. Your skill in hunting is everywhere talked of, and I am surprised that you have time—”
“Why do you take me for a hunter?” replied the old man, with a look of surprise. “Oh! you suppose that I am guilty of the murder of those beasts, whose mutilated heads are hanging there, looking at us so sadly with their poor enamel eyes! You are mistaken; I never hunted in my life. I have a horror of amusements which increase the ferocity only too natural to man. It is to the study of the insensible but fruitful entrails of the globe that I have devoted myself.”
“Excuse me, baron, I thought—”
“There, again, why do you call me baron? I am nothing of the kind; although it is true that the king ennobled me and conferred on me the knighthood of the polar star, as a reward for my labors in the mines of Falun. I was professor of the school of mineralogy in that city, as of course you know, but I have no right to a title. It is quite enough for me to have some few privileges which give me a position with the haughty caste, for which, after all, I don’t care the least in the world.”
“I have made some mistake,” thought Cristiano. “Oh, then! I shall have to escape from this scientific gentleman as quickly as possible, although I seek him out again later.”
But he changed his mind suddenly when he saw Margaret turning back, and proceeding slowly, in spite of numerous interruptions, towards thevery spot where he was seated. His only thought now was to put himself on the best terms with the geologist, so that he might introduce him, if he could possibly bring it about, as a distinguished man. He dashed into conversation, therefore; and he knew more than enough to ask intelligent questions. At Falun, in the morning, he had visited the principal mine, and had taken pleasure in collecting a number of interesting specimens, to the great disgust of Puffo, who often thought him crazy. He knew, moreover, that if you listen respectfully to a learned and vain man, and give him an opportunity to display his knowledge, he will be pretty sure, as a usual thing, to think you very intelligent. This is exactly what happened. Without dreaming of asking his name, his country, or his profession, the professor gave Cristiano a minute description of the subterranean world. In fact, upon the surface of the globe, he cared for nothing but himself, his reputation, and his writings; in a word, for the success of his observations and discoveries.
At any other time Cristiano would have listened with pleasure, for he saw plainly that he was talking to a man who was thoroughly master of his subject, and, for his own part, he felt a deep interest in all departments of natural science; but Margaret was approaching, and his thoughts began to wander. The professor noticed his sudden preoccupation, and looking around with his good eye, cried:
“Ah! there is my fiancée! I am no longer surprised!Parbleu!my dear friend, I must introduce you to the most amiable person in the kingdom.”
“It is really he, then!” thought Cristiano, in profound amazement. “I am talking to Baron Olaus! He seems to be half crazy, but this is actually the old man to whom this Rose of the North is to be sacrificed!”
He ceased to doubt, although his surprise was redoubled when he saw Margaret quicken her step, and heard her say to Mademoiselle Potin:
“Here is my lover at last!”
She held out her hand to the old man, and added, with a sweet and almost tender smile:
“What are you thinking of, monsieur, to hide yourself in this little corner, when your fiancée has been looking for you for the last hour?”
“You see,” said the professor to Cristiano, with artless satisfaction, “she looks for me, she is unhappy when I am not with her! What would you have, my beauty? It is not my fault that so many people wish to consult me, and here is a charming young man, a traveller—French, are you not? or Italian, for you have a very slight foreign accent? Allow me, Countess Margaret, to introduce my young friend, M. de ——. Excuse me, monsieur, what is your name?”
“Christian Goefle,” said Cristiano, without hesitation.
At this assumed name, and, above all, at the young man’s voice and pronunciation, Margaret trembled.
“Are you Monsieur Goefle’s son?” she said, eagerly. “Oh, it is singular how much you resemble him!”
“There would be nothing singular in such near relatives looking alike,” replied the professor, “but this gentleman can only be Goefle’s nephew. Goefle never married, and consequently he has no children, any more than myself.”
“That would be no reason,” Cristiano whispered in the professor’s ear.
“To be sure; you are right!” replied the latter in the same tone, and with the most incredible simplicity; “I did not think of that! That devil of a Goefle! You are his son, then, by a left-handed marriage?”
“Brought up in a foreign country, and just arrived in Sweden,” replied Cristiano, astonished at the success of his impromptu suggestions.
“Well, well!” replied the professor, who cared very little about other people’s affairs. “I understand; it is quite plain—you are his nephew.”
He turned to Margaret.
“I know this gentleman perfectly well,” he said; “he is the nephew of my excellent friend Monsieur Goefle, and I have the honor to present him to you. You don’t know M. Goefle, but you said this morning thatyou would like to become acquainted with him.”
“And so I should,” cried Margaret.
She blushed as she spoke, for at that very moment she met Cristiano’s eyes, and their vivacity reminded her of those of the false Goefle. From time to time the young man, with an involuntary movement, had raised the doctor’s green spectacles, so as to see better, and Margaret had noticed how brilliantly his eyes flashed between the ear-pieces of his fur cap.
“But how is it,” resumed the professor, addressing the young girl without observing her confusion, “that you are not dancing? I thought you would be the queen of the evening, and that no one would have a chance to speak to you.”
“Well, my dear lover, you are mistaken. I am not going to dance. I sprained my foot coming down stairs. Don’t you see how lame I am?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. You want to resemble me, do you? Tell M. Goefle how it was that I became lame; it was a terrible affair, and would have been the death of any one else. Yes, monsieur, you see before you a victim of science.”
Without giving Margaret time to speak, he began to relate, with great animation, how the rope had broken as he had been descending into a mine, and how he had fallen with the basket into the bottom of the abyss, a distance of fifty feet, seven inches, and five lines. For six hours, fifty-three minutes, and how many seconds we are not prepared to state, he lay in a swoon, and for two months, four days, and three hours and a half, had not been able to move. With the same exasperating accuracy he specified the exact size of the plasters that had been applied to his various wounds, and the quantity, by drachms, grains, and scruples, of the different drugs that he had absorbed, whether in doses taken internally, or by means of external applications rubbed into his skin.
It was a long story, although the old man spoke rapidly, and did not repeat himself. His memory was a real scourge; it would not allow him to omit the least circumstance; and when he was talking of himself, itnever occurred to him that any one could be tired of listening.
Margaret, who knew the story by heart, could not be very attentive, and talked aside with Mademoiselle Potin for a few moments. The result of this short conference, which Cristiano did not fail to notice, was soon evident; good Mademoiselle Potin seized the moment when the professor had finished his story, and before he could embark in another, which he was all ready to do, begged him, with hypocritical frankness, to explain a paragraph in his last work, which she pretended she had not been able to understand.
Cristiano could not help admiring woman’s natural tact, when he saw how eagerly the professor entered into a discussion with the governess, while Margaret’s eyes said clearly to the young man:
“I am dying to speak to you.”
He did not wait to be told twice, but followed her to the other extremity of the little semicircle, where she seated herself upon a sofa, while he stood before her in a respectful attitude, outside the embrasure, in such a way as to shield her from observation.
“Monsieur Christian Goefle,” she said, looking at him again with the greatest attention, “you are surprisingly like your uncle!”
“I have often been told so, mademoiselle; it seems that it is a striking likeness.”
“I have never seen him well; indeed, I may say that I have never seen his face at all; but his accent, his pronunciation—yours are absolutely the same.”
“I should have supposed that my voice would be rather younger than his,” replied Cristiano, who had taken pains at Stollborg to speak, every now and then, like an old man.
“Yes, no doubt,” said the young girl; “there is the difference of age, although your uncle still has a very fine organ. After all, he cannot be so very old! He seemed to me much younger than people say. He has magnificent eyes, and is almost of your height.”
“Just about the same,” said Cristiano, giving an involuntary glanceat the doctor of law’s suit of clothes, and asking himself whether Margaret was speaking ironically, or questioning him in good faith.
He resolved to bring about an explanation.
“There is another point of resemblance between my uncle and myself,” he said, “and that is the deep interest that we feel in a person of your acquaintance, and the desire with which we both are animated to be of service to her.”
“Ah! ah!” said the young girl, blushing with an air of frankness that dissipated Cristiano’s anxiety; “I see that your uncle has been gossiping, and that he has told you about my visit this evening.”
“I don’t know whether you confided any secret to him; in what he repeated to me there was no mystery at which you need blush.”
“Repeated?—repeated? I believe you were there, in some room or closet close by; you heard everything.”
“It was so, I confess,” replied Cristiano, who saw that she would confide in him more quickly if he took advantage of her innocent suggestion. “I was in my uncle’s bed-room, arranging his papers. Without his knowledge, and in spite of myself, I heard everything.”
“That is very pleasant, upon my word!” said Margaret, somewhat confused, and yet pleased without knowing why; “instead of one confidante it seems that I had two.”
“Your confession seemed to be that of an angel; but I am beginning to be afraid that it was in reality that of a demon.”
“Thanks for your good opinion. Will you tell me what has caused it?”
“A strange insincerity that I cannot explain. You described Baron Olaus as a monster, physically and morally—”
“Excuse me, monsieur; you did not understand me. I called him disagreeable, terrible; I never said that he was ugly.”
“And yet you might have said so truthfully; for to speak plainly, he is abominably ugly.”
“It is true that his hard and cold expression makes him seem so; but every one agrees that he has very fine features.”
“The people of this country have a singular standard; but there is no disputing about tastes! I do not agree with them. He seems to me ugly and deformed, but comical and good-humored.”
“You are certainly joking, M. Christian Goefle, or we do not understand each other. God forgive me, you are looking at the person opposite. Is it possible that you have mistaken him for the Baron de Waldemora?”
“How can I help supposing that the person who calls you his fiancée, and whom you gayly call your lover, is the baron?”
Margaret burst out laughing.
“Oh! dear me,” she cried, “if you have really imagined that I could treat Baron Olaus with such friendly familiarity, you must have thought me very deceitful or very inconsistent; but, thank God, I am neither the one nor the other. The individual whom I call jestingly my lover, is a person of no less consequence than the doctor of sciences, Monsieur Stangstadius, of whom you must have heard your uncle speak.”
“Doctor Stangstadius,” replied Cristiano, feeling very much relieved; “I must confess that I do not know him, even by name. I have just arrived from a distant country, where I have always lived.”
“I can understand, then,” replied Margaret, “how it is that you have not heard of our learned mineralogist. Your opinion of him is very correct. He is an excellent man, sometimes a little violent, but never malicious. And then he is simple as a child! There are certain days when he imagines that mypassionfor him, as he calls it, is serious, and when he tries to break the chain, assuring me that a great man like himself belongs to the universe, and cannot devote himself to a woman. I have known him for a long time; ever since he came to the chateau where I was brought up, for the purpose of making investigations on our estates. He passed several weeks with us, and, since then, my aunt has allowed him to visit me whenever his businessbrings him to our province. He was my only acquaintance here when I arrived, for you must know that Baron Olaus has made him superintendent of important mining operations on his domain. But there is my aunt looking for me! Now I shall have a good scolding, you will see!”
“Do you want to avoid her? Pass between the wall and this hunting trophy.”
“Potin would have to go too, and we could never persuade M. Stangstadius to keep our secret. Oh dear! now my aunt will torment me to death to dance with the baron, but I shall persist in being lame, though the pain is so slight that I scarcely feel it.”
“It is nothing at all, I hope.”
“Yes, indeed. I was so fortunate as to fall down on the staircase a little while ago, in my aunt’s presence. My ankle really did hurt me a little, and I looked dreadfully woe-begone, to prove that I could not possibly open the court dance with the master of the house. My aunt had to take my place, and that is why I am here; but the dance is over, and here she comes!”
In fact, Countess Elfride d’Elveda approached, and Cristiano, who had taken a seat by Margaret’s side, drew back a little.
The countess was a small woman, fair, fat, lively and resolute. She was scarcely thirty-five years old, and was very coquettish, although less from gallantry than a love of intrigue.
She was one of the most ardentcapsin Sweden; that is, she took sides with Russia against France, whose partisans were calledhats; and with the nobility and Lutheran clergy against the king, who naturally sought his support in the other orders of the state, the citizens and peasants.
She had been pretty, and, what with her wit and rank, was still sufficiently so to make conquests; but there was something in her manner, by turns haughty and familiar, that displeased Cristiano. Her evident duplicity and obstinacy, which he read at a glance, did not seem to him to promise well for Margaret’s future.
“Well,” she said to the latter, sharply and briefly, “what are you doing here crouched up against this stove, as if you were frozen? Come, I want to speak to you!”
“Yes, aunt,” replied Margaret, pretending, with innocent hypocrisy, to rise with difficulty; “but the fact is that I am suffering very much with my foot. Being unable to dance, I felt cold in the large saloon.”
“Whom were you talking to?” inquired the countess, looking at Cristiano, who had gone up to M. Stangstadius.
“The nephew of your friend M. Goefle, whom Monsieur Stangstadius just presented to me. Shall I introduce him to you, aunt?”
Cristiano, who was not listening to the professor, heard perfectly well what Margaret said. Resolved to risk everything to continue his acquaintance with the niece, he came forward of his own accord, and bowed to the aunt in such a respectful and graceful manner, that she was struck by his fine appearance. She must have been very much in need of M. Goefle, for, in spite of Cristiano’s plebeian name, she received him as courteously as if he had belonged to one of the best families in the country; and when Monsieur Stangstadius declared that he was a young man of great merit, became excessively condescending.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said, “and I am angry with M. Goefle for never speaking to me about a nephew who does him honor. Are you a devotee of science, like our distinguished friend Stangstadius? I am glad to hear it. There is no finer career that a young man can choose. No position is more agreeable than that of the scientific man, for he is not obliged to make sacrifices to obtain consideration.”
“I see that it is so in Sweden,” replied Cristiano, “and it is an honor to this noble country. In Italy, where I was brought up, and even in France, which was my home for some time, it is very different; there, learned men are generally poor, and poorly encouraged, when they are not persecuted by religious fanaticism.”
This reply enraptured the geologist, who was very vain of his country,and was extremely pleasing to the countess, who despised France.
“You are right,” she said, “and I do not understand why your uncle should not have had you educated in your own country, where the position of students is so fortunate and honorable.”
“He wished me to speak the foreign languages with facility,” replied Cristiano, saying the first thing that occurred to him, “but he need not have sent me so far upon that account; for you speak French here, I find, as well as they do in France.”
“We are much obliged to you for your politeness,” said the countess, “but you are flattering us. We do not speak it as well as you do, probably, and our Italian is still worse—although every one who is carefully educated studies it. You must talk Italian with my niece, and, if she makes mistakes, laugh at her well. But why is M. Goefle so anxious about the modern languages? Does he intend you for a diplomat?”
“Perhaps, madame; I am not yet fully aware of his intentions.”
“Fie! Fie! Pooh!” cried the geologist.
“Softly, dear professor,” resumed the countess; “there is a great deal to be said on that side too. All careers are desirable for those who know how to make them so.”
“If you, madame, will condescend to advise me, I shall esteem it a privilege to be indebted to you for a valuable suggestion.”
“It will give me pleasure to do so,” she replied, with an affectation of genial amiability; “and I feel all the more interest in you, because you have all the qualities to insure success. Come with us to the dancing-hall. I want my niece to dance at least one minuet; it is not fatiguing, and she is very perverse to refuse. Do you hear, Margaret? You must do like every one else!”
“But, aunt,” said Margaret, “every one has not a sprained ankle.”
“In society, my child (I am saying this, Monsieur Goefle, for your benefit as well), you must never let anything prevent you from being agreeable or useful. Remember one thing: no one fails to fulfil hisdestiny but through his own fault. You must have a will of iron; you must be superior to cold and heat, hunger and thirst, great sufferings as well as little pains. The world is not, as young people imagine, a fairy palace, where you live for enjoyment. It is, on the contrary, a place of trial, where you will have to conquer all your wants, all your desires, all your repugnances, with real stoicism;—that is, if you have an aim in life, and if you have not you are a very weak person. Ask yourlover, Margaret, whether he thinks of his little comforts when he descends into an abyss to seek that which is the aim of his life. Very well; under the domes of palaces, as well as in the caverns of mines, there are horrors to be braved. That of dancing with a slight pain in your ankle is a very little thing in comparison with what is before you. Come along; get up and come!”
Margaret could not help looking piteously at Cristiano, as much as to say:
“You see, I shall never be as strong as she is.”
“Shall I offer my arm to Countess Margaret?” said Cristiano to the imperious aunt; “she is really limping.”
“No, no; it is nothing but caprice! You will see that she will stop limping soon enough, for it is very awkward. Come, Margaret, give your arm to M. Stangstadius, and go before us; we want to see which of you limps the most.”
“What’s that? What’s that?” cried the professor; “I don’t limp at all, when I’m careful. If I choose I can walk ten times straighter and faster than the best pedestrians. I only wish you could see me up in the mountains, proving to the lazy guides that one can do whatever he wishes!”
As he spoke, M. Stangstadius began to walk very rapidly, but with such a vigorous elevation of his misshapen person at every alternate step, that poor Margaret was almost lifted bodily off the floor.
“Give me your arm,” said Countess Elfride to Cristiano; “not that I care for an escort, or require any assistance, but because I wish to speak to you.”
Cristiano obeyed, and the countess, who both walked and talked rapidly, added:
“Your uncle has told you, I suppose, that I wish to marry my niece to the Baron de Waldemora?”
“Yes, madame, he told me so—this evening.”
“This evening? Has he arrived? I did not know that he was here!”
“He could not find a room at the chateau, no doubt, and he is stopping at Stollborg.”
“What! In that den of evil spirits? Well! he will be in good company! But isn’t he coming to the ball?”
“I hope not!” replied Cristiano, thoughtlessly.
“You hope not!”
“I say so because of his gout, which requires perfect repose.”
“Indeed! Has he the gout? What a trial to such a brisk, active man! He never had it before, and imagined that he was always going to escape.”
“It is quite recent—the attack came on only a few days ago. He sent me here in his place to present his compliments to you, and receive your commands, which I will communicate to him as soon as he wakes in the morning.”
“Very well, then, you can tell him what I say. This is a matter that I make no sort of mystery about. I have noticed that, when you proclaim your plans boldly, they are already half accomplished. It is my wish, therefore, to marry my niece to the baron. You will tell me, perhaps, that he is not young; for that very reason he has no time to lose in frustrating the schemes of a dozen heirs whom he detests, and who are trying in vain to worm their way into his favor. Stay, there are two of them passing now; the one this way is the Count de Nora, an inoffensive, good-natured man; the other, the Baron de Lindenwald, is intelligent, designing, ambitious, and (like all of our nobility at present) poor. Baron Olaus is a happy exception, because he has no brothers. Now, what I want you to understand—you and your uncle as well—is, that the baron looks with a favorable eye upon my niece, and that she dislikes him. This does not discourage me at all. My nieceis a child, and will submit. Since my resolution is known, no one will venture to pay court to him, and I will take care of her. Your uncle must undertake to bring the baron to a determination, and he can do it easily.”
“If the countess will condescend to give me her instructions—”
“You shall have them in two words: my niece loves the baron!”
“Really?”
“What! You do not understand? An aspirant in diplomacy!”
“Ah! of course;—excuse me, madame—Countess Margaret is reputed to love the baron, although she detests him, and—”
“The baron must believe that he is loved?”
“And it is Monsieur Goefle who must make him think so?”
“He alone. The baron is very suspicious; I have known him of old; I could not persuade him. He would suppose that I was interested.”
“Which is not the case,” said Cristiano, smiling.
“Which is the case!—for my niece. Ought I not to be so?”
“Assuredly; but will M. Goefle lend himself to this slight exaggeration?”
“A lawyer hesitate to embellish the truth a little? Nonsense! When your dear uncle has a suit to gain he is not so scrupulous!”
“No doubt; but will the baron believe him?”
“He will believe whatever M. Goefle tells him. According to him, he is the only sincere man alive.”
“The baron, then, wishes to be loved for himself?”
“Yes, he has that fancy.”
“If he loves Countess Margaret he will find it easy to deceive himself.”
“Loves her? Do you suppose any one falls in love when they have reached his age? That has nothing to do with it. The baron is a man of serious character, who wishes to marry for the sake of leaving an heir, havinglost his son five years ago. If his wife is pretty, and of good family, he will be satisfied, and his only request of her will be not to make him ridiculous. Now he runs no risks with my niece; she is a girl of good principles, and, whether contented or not, she will never forget her dignity. You can tell your uncle so, to set his doubts at rest. Tell him, also, that he can rely upon my gratitude, which, as he knows, is not to be despised. In my position I can reward slight services with important ones; and, to begin with, what would he like for you? What would you like for yourself? Do you want to be attaché at once, and on a good footing with the Russian embassy? I have only to say the word. The ambassador is here.”
“God forbid!” said Cristiano, who detested Russia.
He recovered himself quickly, and not wishing to have a misunderstanding with the countess too soon, finished his sentence thus:
“God forbid that I should ever forget your goodness! I will do all in my power to deserve it.”
“Very well, begin at once.”
“Shall I go over to Stollborg and wake up my uncle?”
“No; keep near my niece, and talk to her from time to time in the course of the evening. Take advantage of the opportunity to eulogize the baron.”
“But I do not know him.”
“You have seen him, that is enough. You can speak as if you had been struck by his fine manner and noble figure.”
“I should be quite at your service if I had seen him; but—”
“Ah! you have not yet paid your respects to him. Come, then, and I will introduce you. But no, there is another way. Go and ask Margaret to point him out to you, and exclaim immediately about the beauty of his features and person. That will be simple, spontaneous, and worth a great deal more than a studied eulogy.”
“But why should my opinion, even supposing it to be sincere, have the slightest influence with your niece?”
“In Sweden, any one who has travelled has more influence than two orthree ordinary mortals. And then, don’t you know that young girls don’t understand their own natures; that it is vanity that impels them to choose their lovers, and not sympathy; and that the man, consequently, whom they admire the most, is always the one who is most admired by others? Stay! there is my niece seated with some other young ladies, who certainly would be very glad of a chance to win the baron. That will do nicely. I will leave her there, and you can join the circle. To give you an opportunity to fulfil your promise, I will take the baron’s arm and walk up and down in full view of this solemn assembly. Seize the right moment.”
“But what will the baron think if he happens to notice me? He will set me down as an awkward boor, too ignorant either to ask any one to introduce me to him, or to introduce myself.”
“Don’t trouble yourself; I will make it all right. Besides, the baron will not see you; he is very short-sighted, and only recognizes people by their voices. When he hunts he wears glasses, and sees perfectly well; but he is still too much of an exquisite to use them in society. It is all settled. Away with you!”
In another moment Cristiano was passing among the groups of beautiful young ladies who were reposing between the dances. He introduced himself to one of these little coteries by saying something polite to Mademoiselle Potin, who was next the wall, and who, poor girl, was very much gratified at his courtesy. Margaret was delighted to see him among the young men who surrounded her companions, and the latter soon learned from her that he was “a young man of great promise, nephew of the celebrated Goefle, the intimate friend of her aunt.” Some of them turned up their noses, and thought it not at all the thing that a plebeian should venture to come and entertain them, among the young officers of theindelta,[3]who generally belonged togood families; but most of them welcomed him kindly, and thought him charming.
The fact is, that Cristiano, like a great many adventurers in this adventurous age, was charming. His style of beauty, also—a singular coincidence that he had not thought of explaining—was precisely that best calculated to please in this country. He was tall and well formed, fair, with a clear red and white complexion, with dark blue eyes and strongly marked eyebrows, as black as ebony, as were his long curved lashes and magnificent hair. Moreover, there was a something peculiar about him that attracted attention: a sort of foreign style, a suavity in his language and manners telling of the more civilized, or, at least, the more artistic circles to which he had belonged; a lingering perfume, as it were, of Italy and France. As soon as it was known that he had been brought up in Italy, he was overwhelmed with questions, to which he replied with so much good sense, frankness, and gayety, that after chatting for a little while, all these young mad-caps were crazy about him. Cristiano, although by no means a fop, was not at all surprised. He had been used to pleasing in other days, and when he resolved to indulge once more, at all costs, in an evening’s gayety, he knew, that unless his success should be seriously interfered with by some unexpected revelation, he would appear to better advantage than most of the young nobles and officers who were present.
In the meanwhile, the little Countess Elfride, who was leaning, or rather hanging upon the arm of the imposing Baron Olaus, had passed twice without catching Cristiano’s eye. The third time she coughed violently, and led the baron up to Margaret, while Cristiano, who understood, broke away from the bewildering group and fell back, to observe his host without attracting his attention.
Baron Olaus was a tall, stout man, and, in spite of his age, was still very handsome, but the deadly pallor and sinister impassibility of his countenance made it really appalling. His fixed look struck you like a blast of icy wind that takes the breath away, and the expressionof his face when he smiled was extraordinarily sad and disdainful. As soon as he spoke to Margaret, Cristiano recognized him from his voice, which was disagreeably harsh and monotonous, as the very person who had been selling Sweden so cheap an hour before in his conferences with the Russian diplomatist. He recognized him also from his lofty stature and rich dark dress, which he had noticed while listening to him doing the honors of his country to the enemy.
“Have you fully determined not to dance, mademoiselle?” said the disagreeable baron to Margaret. “Are you suffering much?”
The countess did not give Margaret time to answer.
“Oh, it is nothing!” she said; “Margaret will dance soon.”
She led the baron away, after looking again in a domineering manner at Cristiano. Now this is how he obeyed her:
“So that is Baron Olaus de Waldemora?” he said, approaching Margaret and Mademoiselle Potin, who had hastened to join the young girl at the approach of her chaperone.
“That is he!” replied Margaret, with a bitter smile. “What do you think of him?”
“He must have been quite handsome thirty years ago.”
“That, at least,” rejoined Margaret, with a sigh. “Did you like his face?”
“Yes; I have a great admiration for cheerful faces. There is a certain gayety about his—”
“Is it not frightful?”
“What was that you said to my uncle?” said Cristiano, sitting down beside her chair, and lowering his voice; “did he kill his sister-in-law?”
“It is thought so.”
“For my part, I am sure of it.”
“Indeed! Why?”
“Because he must have looked at her!”
“Oh! Is it not true that he has the evil eye?”
“You exaggerate a little,” said Mademoiselle Potin, who no doubt hadbeen terrified by some silent threat of Countess Elfride. “He has the fixed look of people who do not see well.”
“Just so,” said Cristiano; “death is blind. But who gave the baron the surname ofthe Snow Man? It suits him: he is the living embodiment of a Spitzbergen winter. He has given me a chill.”
“And did you notice his curious habit?” said Margaret.
“He put his hand to his forehead as if to wipe off the perspiration; do you mean that?”
“Exactly.”
“The Snow Man wants, perhaps, to make us believe that he is perspiring; but the simple truth is that he is thawing.”
“You see that I had good cause to be afraid of him. And his black diamond—did you notice that?”
“Yes, I noticed the hideous black diamond, as he wiped his forehead with his fleshless hand; which forms such a singular contrast to his corpulent figure and bloated face.”
“Whom are you talking about so?” said a young Russian lady, who had risen to spread out her gown over her hoop petticoat; “the Baron de Waldemora?”
“I was just about to say,” said Cristiano, without being disconcerted, “that that worthy man has not three months to live.”
“Oh, then,” cried the Russian, laughing, “you must make haste to marry him, Margaret!”
“Keep your advice for yourself, Olga,” replied the young countess.
“Alas! I have not, like you, an aunt who carries everything before her! But what makes you think, M. Goefle, that the baron is so ill?”
“From the unhealthy disproportion of his figure, from the yellow white of his glassy eyes, from the pinched-in look at the base of his hooked nose, and, above all, from an indefinable feeling that came over me as soon as I saw him.”
“Indeed! Are you gifted with the second sight, like the people in the north of this country?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I don’t consider myself a sorcerer; but I am quite satisfied that some organizations are more or less sensitive to certain mysterious influences, and I answer for it that the baron has not long to live.”
“I think,” said Margaret, “that he has been dead already for a long time; and that it is only by means of some diabolical secret that he succeeds in passing himself off for a living man.”
“It is true that he looks like a spectre,” said Olga; “but no matter, he is handsome in spite of his age, and he has a strange power of fascination. I dreamed about him all last night. I was frightened, and yet it was a pleasant fear. Can you explain that?”
“It is perfectly simple,” replied Margaret, “the baron is a famous alchemist; he knows how to make diamonds. Now you told us this morning that you would sign a compact with the devil for diamonds.”
“You are wicked, Margaret! Suppose I should tell others how you talk about the baron, and it should come to his ears; you would be vexed enough, I wager.”
“Do you think so, Monsieur Goefle?” said Margaret to Cristiano.
“No,” he replied. “Why should angels care for diamonds? have they not the stars?”
Margaret blushed, and turned to the young Russian:
“My dear Olga,” she said, “I implore you tell the baron yourself that I cannot endure him. You will be doing me a great service. Stay! I will prove my gratitude. There is the bracelet that you wanted so much! Make a quarrel between me and the baron, and I will agree to give it to you.”
“Oh, dear me! but what will your aunt say?”
“I will tell her that I have lost it, and you must not wear it while you are here—no questions will be asked. See, the baron is returning! They are going to dance another minuet, and he is coming to invite me; but I shall refuse. My aunt is talking politics with the Russianambassador, and will not see me. Stay by me, and he will have to ask you.”
In fact, the baron came forward, and renewed his invitation with a sepulchral grace. Margaret trembled in every limb when he held out his hand to take hers.
“Countess Elveda informs me,” he said, “that you would like to dance now, and I am going to have another minuet for you.”
Margaret arose, took a step forward, and fell back in her chair.
“I should be glad to obey my aunt,” she said firmly, “but you see, baron, that I cannot, and I do not suppose that you want to torture me.”
The baron started. He was a man of intelligence, perfectly well-bred, and excessively suspicious. The countess had not deceived him so effectually that he was not capable of understanding the slightest hint, and Margaret’s aversion was too evident to be mistaken. He smiled bitterly, and replied with sarcastic courtesy:
“You are a thousand times too good, mademoiselle, and I trust you will believe that I feel your kindness deeply.”
He turned immediately to Olga, invited her, and led her away; while Margaret snatched the elegant bracelet from her arm, and slipped it into the ambitious young creature’s hand.
“Monsieur Goefle,” she said to Cristiano, eagerly, although with a trembling voice, “you have brought me happiness. I am saved!”
“And yet you are pale,” said Cristiano; “you are trembling.”
“I cannot help it! I was so frightened. And I am frightened still, for I cannot help thinking how angry my aunt will be. But no matter, I have got rid of the baron. He will revenge himself; he will kill me, perhaps. But I shall not be his wife; I shall not bear his name. I shall never touch his blood-stained hand.”
“Be quiet, for heaven’s sake be quiet!” said Mademoiselle Potin, who was as pale and frightened as herself; “some one may hear you. You have been very brave, and I congratulate you. But you are really timid, andall this excitement will make you ill.Mon Dieu!don’t faint, my dear child. Take your smelling-bottle.”
“Don’t be afraid, my good friend,” replied Margaret, “I have recovered. Did any one around see what happened? I am afraid to look.”
“No, God be praised! The noise of the orchestra, which had just begun playing, drowned every other sound, and your young friends were hurrying away to the dance. We are almost alone in this corner. Don’t stay here and attract attention. Above all things, avoid having a scene with your aunt while you are so excited. Come with me to your room; give me your arm.”
“And shall I not see you again?” said Cristiano, with an emotion that he could not control.
“Yes, surely,” replied Margaret, “I want to speak to you again. In an hour you will find us—”
“Where shall I find you?”
“I don’t know. Oh yes! in the supper-room.”
As Margaret withdrew, Cristiano left the hall by another door, and began to look for the place of rendezvous, so that he might be there promptly at the appointed hour. Besides, he had been suffering from hunger ever since he came to the ball, in spite of his interesting adventures, and the word supper-room aroused his appetite to full activity.
“If no one is there,” he said to himself, “I shall make terrible inroad into the provisions of my lord baron.”
While he is proceeding towards this sanctuary, let us see what was taking place in the drawing-room.