VIII.
CHRISTIAN had listened attentively to the lawyer’s narrative, and, after a few moments’ reflection, he observed:
“There is a great deal in this history that seems to me extremely ambiguous. I feel sorry for that poor Baroness Hilda; of all the persons of this drama, she is the one who interests me the most. Who knows whether she did not really die of starvation in this horrible chamber, as so many believe.”
“Ah! that is entirely out of the question!” cried M. Goefle. “The idea really tormented me, so much has been said about it; but Stenson, who assuredly would never have allowed such a thing to happen, gave me his word of honor that he had served and waited upon the baroness to the last, and was with her during her last moments. She did really die of inanition, but it was because her stomach refused to retain food. The baron spared no pains to furnish her with whatever she desired.”
“No doubt,” replied Christian; “if he is as adroit as your story indicates, he would be unlikely to commit a useless murder. All that he needed was to kill the poor lady with fear or grief. But there is still another explanation, M. Goefle; my own version!”
“What is that?”
“That she is not dead.”
“That is impossible. And still, no one ever knew what was done with her body.”
“There—you see!”
“The pastor refused it burial in the parish cemetery. There is no Catholic cemetery here, and it would seem that she must have been buried by night in Stenson’s orchard, or elsewhere.”
“Why, did Stenson never tell you?”
“Stenson will not be questioned on this point. The memory of the baroness is at once dear and awful to him. He loved her sincerely, and served her zealously; but he refuses to say anything about her religious belief, whatever it may have been, and it both terrifies and distresses him to have the subject even referred to.”
“Very well; but what does he say of the baron?”
“Nothing.”
“That perhaps is saying a great deal.”
“Very true; but still, silence is not a charge of murder.”
“Then we need discuss it no further, if you are satisfied, M. Goefle. And after all, what does it matter to us? The past is past. Only, you said that the sight of that spectre had filled your mind with strange doubts.”
“That was only because it is a weakness of our profession to turn everything into a subject of investigation—though I have always tried to guard myself against it. We have enough to do to arrive at the facts of the different cases with which we are intrusted, without volunteering to batter our brains over those that do not concern us. Beyond a doubt, it is because I have been idle for a few days that my mind keeps at work in spite of myself, and that I have summoned up from the shades of the forgotten past, the form of the Baroness Hilda—”
“Particularly,” said Christian, “as the being who appeared to you was not perhaps a vision, but quite simply some living person, whose costume happened to be like that of the old picture.”
“I should be glad to think so, but people who pass through walls arenone other than the sad inhabitants of the land of gloomy imaginations.”
“Wait a moment, M. Goefle; you saw the phantom enter; but you have not told me which way it disappeared.”
“I could not, since I do not know. I should say on the same side where it came in.”
“By the secret door, then.”
“Is there one?”
“Did you not know it?”
“No, I did not, really.”
“Well, then, come and see it.”
Christian took the candle and lighted M. Goefle to the spot; but the secret door was shut from the outside. It was so accurately fitted into the wood-work that it was impossible to distinguish it from the other panels, which were all ornamented with a similar raised moulding, and so thick that it gave back the same dull sound as the rest of the oak wainscot. Besides, it was strongly fastened behind by the large bolts that Christian had noticed the evening before. He had left them unfastened, but they had now been bolted, probably by the same hand that had padlocked the outer door at the foot of the secret staircase. Christian mentioned all this to M. Goefle, who was obliged to take his word for it, as he had no means of going to certify the facts.
“Believe me, M. Goefle,” said Christian, “either some old servant of M. Stenson’s came in here yesterday to put the room in order, without knowing that it had been invaded, or the Baroness Hilda is kept a prisoner somewhere in the building, either under our feet or over our heads; in the walled-up rooms above, for aught that I know. And by the way, how about that built-up door—you did not tell me where it led to, nor why it was closed. And yet that seems to me a rather interesting circumstance.”
“A very ordinary one. Stenson told me all about it. The room over this was for a long time completely out of repair. When the Baroness Hilda took refuge at Stollborg, she had the door closed up because it let in the wind and the cold. After her death, Stenson had it opened, tomake repairs in the masonry of the upper part of the building. But as it would have cost more than it was worth to make the place habitable, and as nobody would have ventured to occupy rooms that were regarded as the devil’s very head-quarters, on account of the Catholic chapel that was supposed to have been erected there, Stenson, with the baron’s permission—as he himself told me—built it up solid again with his own hands. He did this both out of economy—there being no further use for the door—and to put a stop to the superstitious stories in circulation about the old building.”
“Still, M. Goefle, you saw the supposed phantom come out from behind the map of Sweden that covers that masonry?”
“Oh, that was only a dream! Go and look, Christian. You will be more successful than I was, if you can find a practicable door there. Do you think I did not go and examine the place as soon as the vision disappeared?”
“Of course,” said Christian, who had already ascended the stairs, raised the map of Sweden, and was rapping at different parts of the wall beneath it. “There’s nothing here but a wall as thick as the rest, if I can judge by the dulness of the sound. The red paint also is accurately matched, and well laid on across the joinings; but did you notice, M. Goefle, how this plaster is scratched in the middle here?”
“Yes; I thought it had been done by a rat!”
“Very strange sort of work for a rat! Do you see what regular little circles he has traced on the wall?”
“True; but what of it?”
“Every effect has a cause; that is what I am seeking. Did you not say that among the sounds you had heard there was a scratching?”
“Yes; a grinding, as if of some tool.”
“Well, do you know what I think it was? Some feeble or unskilful hand trying to break a hole in the wall, and look through.”
“It must have been with a nail, then, or something still smaller, for the scratch in the plaster is certainly not more than two lines deep.”
“Not so much; and yet it has been cut into perseveringly in many places.”
“Stenson may have made those marks, to fix in his mind something or other that he did not choose to write down. Come, you must know how to decipher all sorts of lapidary inscriptions.”
“I know enough to say that it is no inscription, and belongs to no known language. I hold to my idea, that it was an attempt to pierce the wall. See, in each place there is a small hole with bevelled edges, made with a blunt instrument, and around it a circle, scratched into the white of the plaster, as if a pair of scissors had been used, after the fashion of a pair of dividers, but with one prong—that serving as the feeble support—broken.”
“You are ingenious.”
“Ingenious enough for that; do you see that little pile of white dust recently fallen on the upper stair?”
“Well?”
“Well, this person—whoever you may choose to consider her, an illustrious captive, or an old servant, who runs about the building at all hours—came here last night; not for the first time, but for the twentieth at least—to try and look through this wall. Or, stay—better yet! She knows there is a secret there—some invisible means of opening this invisible door—and she is searching, and feeling, and digging, to try and discover it. If we watch her to-night we shall find a clue to the mystery.”
“Upon my word, that is a good idea, and I accept it the more willingly because it relieves my mind of a real burden. Instead of being a seer of visions, I should then have seen a real person. I very much prefer to think it is so, although I am a little ashamed of myself for having had any doubts on the subject. However, Christian, I must tell you one thing frankly. I do not believe there is any prisoner here, for, in that case, there would have to be a prison and a jailer. Now thisroom was open on both sides when you arrived, since you came in by one door and went out by the other, and there is no one for a jailer except Stenson, who is honest and devoted.”
“But the baroness was certainly imprisoned here with more or less severity, and your honest Stenson was employed here then—”
“No, it has never been made to appear that there was any actual imprisonment; and even if it were so, Stenson was not master of Stollborg at that time. Now, when he alone has charge of it, for I presume you do not count Ulphilas as anybody—”
“Say what you like, M. Goefle, there is some mystery here; and whatever it is, whether great or trifling, I mean to solve it. But, great heavens, what am I thinking about! Time is passing, Puffo does not come back, and here I am amusing myself by inventing a romance when I ought to be thinking about the one I am to perform! I knew, M. Goefle, that when you made me eat, you would set me talking and make me forget my work!”
“Well, well, my boy, make your preparations, then. I promised to help you, you know!”
“You can’t help me, M. Goefle, I must have my assistant. I’ll go and look him up.”
“Very well, go then. In the meanwhile I will go and see Stenson, to whom I have not yet had leisure to pay my respects, and who probably does not know I am here. He never comes into these premises—”
“Ah, I beg your pardon, M. Goefle, he does. He came in here only a little while ago. I saw him while you had gone out. There; I forgot to tell you of it. He took me either for the devil or for a ghost, for he was in an awful fright, and made his escape stumbling, and absolutely out of his wits with terror.”
“Pshaw! Really? Is he so much of a coward as that? But I have no right to laugh at him, after imagining that I saw theGray Lady. He certainly cannot have taken you for her!”
“I don’t know who he took me for—perhaps for the ghost of Baron Adelstan.”
“What? Well, it is possible. There is his portrait, opposite to his wife’s; it is much of your size and figure. Still—in that costume—”
“I had not put it on. I was still in your black clothes.”
“Why, what are you doing now? Masking?”
“No, I only put my mask on my head in case I should have to go as far as to the new chateau to find Puffo.”
“Let me see the mask—it must be very unpleasant.”
“Not at all; it is on a plan of my own; light and supple, all of silk, and lifting upon the head like the visor of a cap that can be put up or down at pleasure. When raised and hidden by my hat, it at least helps to hide my hair, which is so thick that it would attract attention. When it is down—I find it very comfortable, by the way, in this climate—it is in no danger of falling, and I am not annoyed by being constantly obliged to tie and untie a ribbon, which, moreover, is liable to break or become entangled. See what a neat invention it is!”
“Excellent! But your voice—how will you keep from being recognized by that?”
“Oh, that is my talent, my specialty! You know it very well, for you have been present at one of my performances.”
“True. I would have taken my oath that there were a dozen of you in the box. I must see you this evening, by the way; I shall go and sit with the audience, but I don’t want to know the piece beforehand. Well, good luck to you, my boy! I’m going to try and extract some explanation out of old Sten about my apparition. But what is that cypress-bough that you are putting on the frame of theGray Lady’spicture?”
“That is another thing that I forgot to tell you. M. Stenson brought it. I don’t know what he meant to do with it, but he threw it down at my feet; and whatever his intention was, I am going to make a memorial offering of it to this poor Baroness Hilda.”
“You may be sure, Christian, that this was also the intention of the good old man. It is either to-morrow or to-day—stay a moment; Ihave a good memory for dates—Mon Dieu!this very day is the anniversary of the death of the baroness. That accounts for Sten’s prevailing on himself to come here, to offer some prayer or other.”
“Then,” said Christian, as he detached the little slip of parchment which M. Goefle had taken for a ribbon from the branch around which it was rolled, “see if you can explain the verses of the Bible that are written on that. My time is so short that I will go without waiting now.”
“Stay,” said M. Goefle, who had put on his spectacles to read the slip of parchment; “if you go as far as to the new chateau, and find Master Nils, who has not come back here to attend to my lunch, will you do me the pleasure to take him by one ear and bring him along with you?”
Christian promised to bring him, alive or dead, but he did not have to go very far to find both his own valet and M. Goefle’s. He went into the stable, where it occurred to him to look before leaving the court, and there he found Puffo and Nils snoring side by side, and both of them equally drunk. Ulphilas, who could bear liquor better, was walking backward and forward about the place, very well satisfied at not being left alone at nightfall, and from time to time casting a fraternal eye upon the two comrades of his revel. Christian saw how things had gone. Nils, who understood both Swedish and Dalecarlian, had acted as interpreter between the two drunkards, and their growing friendship had been cemented in the cellar. The poor little valet did not require much of a trial to become quite oblivious of his master, even supposing that he had been distressing himself particularly about him before. Now, he was lying warm and snug in the dry moss which they use for litter in that country, with cheeks red and nose on fire, and, as well as Puffo, had forgotten all about the cares of this vile world.
“Very good,” said M. Goefle to Christian, who met him in the court, and brought him to see this touching spectacle; “as long as the littlerascal is not ill, I am very well satisfied not to have to wait upon him.”
“But what am I to do, M. Goefle?” said Christian, in a great deal of perplexity; “I can’t do without this beast of a Puffo. I have shaken him, but in vain. He’s dead for the present. I know him; he won’t be himself for ten or twelve hours.”
“Pshaw, pshaw!” answered M. Goefle, who was evidently preoccupied; “go and select your piece, and don’t trouble yourself; a smart fellow like you is never at a loss.”
And leaving Christian to get out of his difficulties as he best might, he walked on with his usual short, quick, determined step, straight to the pavilion, in the new gaard which Stenson occupied. Evidently the three verses of the Bible were whirling about busily in his head.
The lower floor of this pavilion was a sort of vestibule, which Ulphilas, who was afraid of being alone, preferred to his own lodging, and where he slept under the pretence of being at hand to wait upon his uncle, whose great age needed constant attendance. Ulph had just come into this vestibule, and had thrown himself down upon his bed, where he was already fast asleep and snoring. M. Goefle was about ascending to the upper floor, when he was arrested by the sound of voices in conversation. Two persons were talking, with great animation, in Italian. The voice of one of them was pitched in a high key, as is often the case with deaf persons, who cannot themselves hear what they are saying; this was Stenson. He spoke the language with a good deal of facility, but with a detestable accent, and very incorrectly. The other person, who was speaking pure Italian in a noticeably clear voice, and with a very distinct pronunciation, seemed to make himself heard, in spite of the old man’s deafness. M. Goefle was very much surprised to find that Stenson understood Italian, and could express himself in it either well or ill, for he did not know that he had ever had any occasion to use it. The conversation was being carried on in Stenson’s office, which opened into his sleeping-room. The door at the head of the stairs was closed; but M. Goefle, taking a few steps up, heard afragment of the dialogue, in substance as follows:
“No,” said Stenson, “you are mistaken. The baron has no interest in making this discovery.”
“Possibly, M. Steward,” replied the unknown; “but it will not cost me anything to ascertain.”
“Then you propose to sell the secret to the highest bidder?”
“Perhaps so. What do you offer?”
“Nothing! I am poor, because I have always been honest and disinterested. I do not even own anything in this place. I have only my life. You may take that, if you choose.”
At these words, which seemed to imply that old Stenson was at the mercy of some bandit, M. Goefle sprang up two more steps at a stride, to come to the rescue; but the Italian resumed, with perfect composure:
“What should I do with that, Monsieur Stenson? Come, take courage! you can get yourself out of the difficulty by looking up some of your old crowns in your old box. Old people always have one. You found the means of paying Manasses, so as to secure his discretion.”
“Manasses was an honest man. That salary—”
“Was not intended for him, I have no doubt; but he thought otherwise, for he always kept it for himself alone.”
“You are slandering him.”
“Well, whether that is so or not, he is dead; and the other—”
“He is dead, too. I know it.”
“You know it! How do you know it?”
“I am not obliged to say. But I am certain that he is dead, and you can tell the baron anything you please. I am not afraid of you. Adieu! I have not long to live, so leave me to prepare for another world; it is the only thing that I occupy myself about. Adieu! Leave me, I tell you. I have no money.”
“That is your last word, is it? You know that within two hours I shall have taken service with the baron?”
“That makes no difference to me.”
“You don’t suppose I have come so far to be paid with nothing but such talk?”
“Do whatever you choose.”
The door now opened, and M. Goefle stepped resolutely up towards the person who came out. He found himself confronting a man who seemed about thirty years of age, and who was quite handsome, though his face was singularly pale, and forbidding in expression. The lawyer’s eyes met the stranger’s as they passed close to each other on the narrow stairway; the gaze of the former was open, severe, and scrutinizing; that of the latter, oblique and distrustful. The unknown, however, bowed civilly, and passed down to the foot of the stairs, while M. Goefle proceeded to the top; but having reached those points, both turned for another look, and the advocate was struck with something diabolical in the sallow face below him gleaming in the light of the small lamp that hung before the inner door of the vestibule. On entering Stenson’s room he found him seated with his head resting on his hands, as motionless as a statue, so that he was obliged to touch his arm to make known his presence. Even then, such was the old man’s abstraction, that he looked up with a stupefied air; it was some moments before he recognized his visitor and recovered his presence of mind. Recollecting himself at last, he arose with a great effort and saluted M. Goefle with his usual politeness, inquiring after his health, and offering his own chair, which the lawyer, however, declined. On taking his hand, he found it warm and wet, either with perspiration or with tears. M. Goefle was deeply moved; he felt a great esteem and affection for Sten, and always treated him with the respect that was the proper tribute to his age and character. It was easy to see that the old man had passed through a terrible crisis, and that he had endured it with dignity; but what could this secret be which this stranger with the suspicious face and cynical language appeared to be holding suspended, like the sword of Damocles, over his head?
Stenson had by this time recovered his usual grave, and rather cold and ceremonious, demeanor. He had never been companionable with any one. Whether from pride or shyness, he was as reserved with peoplewhom he had known thirty years, as with those whom he met for the first time; and he was in the habit, moreover, of replying in monosyllables to all questions, the most important as well as the most trifling; knowing this, M. Goefle had been the more surprised at his connected conversation with the unknown, which he had overheard.
“I did not know that you had come to Waldemora, M. Goefle,” he said; “is it about the lawsuit?”
“Yes, the baron’s suit with his neighbor of Elfdalen, who, I think, may be in the right of it; I have advised the baron to arrange the affair, without pushing it to a legal decision. Can you hear me, M. Stenson?”
“Yes, monsieur, perfectly.”
As the old man, from an excess of politeness, always made this reply whether he heard or not, M. Goefle, who was determined to have some conversation with him, put his mouth to his ear, and took pains to articulate every syllable very distinctly, but he soon saw that this precaution was less necessary now than had been the case in former years. Stenson’s deafness, far from having increased, seemed to be sensibly diminished. M. Goefle congratulated Sten on this, but he shook his head, and said:
“It is temporary only; it changes a great deal. To-day I hear everything.”
“Does not this occur when you have experienced some strong emotion?” asked M. Goefle.
Stenson looked at the lawyer with surprise, and, after hesitating a moment, made this answer—which was no answer at all:
“I am nervous—extremely nervous.”
“Might I inquire,” asked M. Goefle, “who the man was whom I just met going out from here?”
“I do not know.”
“Did you not ask his name?”
“He is an Italian.”
“But what is his name?”
“He said it was Guido.”
“Does he propose to enter the baron’s service?”
“Possibly.”
“He has a bad face.”
“Do you think so?”
“However, it will not be the only one about the baron.”
Stenson gave no sign of assent, and his face remained unpassable. It was not easy to enter into conversation on delicate and confidential topics with a man whose ceremonious bearing seemed constantly to say, “Talk of your own business to me, not of mine.” But M. Goefle was urged on by the demon of curiosity, and would not allow himself to be repulsed.
“This Italian was talking to you rather rudely,” he said with abruptness.
“Do you think so?” replied the old man, with an air of indifference.
“I heard him while I was coming up stairs.”
Sten’s face showed some traces of emotion, but he asked no question betraying any uneasiness at what M. Goefle might have heard.
“He was threatening you,” added the latter.
“With what?” asked Stenson, shrugging his shoulders; “I am so old—”
“He threatened to reveal something to the baron, which it is greatly to your interest to keep concealed.”
Stenson remained perfectly quiet, as if he had not heard. M. Goefle persisted:
“Who is this Manasses who is dead?”
The same silence upon Stenson’s part, while his impenetrable eyes, fixed on M. Goefle, seemed to say, “If you know, why do you ask?”
“Andthe other,” the advocate went on, “what other was he speaking of?”
“Were you listening, M. Goefle?” questioned the old man in his turn, with a tone of extreme deference, but in which there was a distinct accent of disapproval.
The advocate felt some embarrassment, but his consciousness of his good intentions reassured him.
“Are you surprised, M. Stenson,” he asked, after a pause, “that when I suddenly heard an unknown voice speaking to you in a threatening tone, I should have approached to help you, if necessary?”
Stenson held out to M. Goefle his aged, wrinkled hand, which had become cold once more.
His lips moved for some moments without uttering a sound—a natural action with a person unaccustomed to talking, and struggling to overcome his habitual reserve; but he hesitated so long, that M. Goefle, to encourage him, said:
“My dear M. Stenson, there is a secret oppressing you, and you are in serious danger in consequence.”
Stenson sighed, and replied laconically:
“I am an honest man, M. Goefle!”
“And yet,” answered the lawyer, with emphasis, “your conscience—a pious and sensitive one—is reproaching you for something!”
“Something?” repeated Stenson, with an air mild and yet firm, as much as to say, “Let me hear what you can allege against me!”
“You have, at least, to fear the vengeance of the baron?”
“No,” answered Stenson, with sudden decision of tone, “I know what the doctor told me.”
“Has the doctor given him up? Is his complaint so much advanced as that? I saw him this morning. He looked to me as if he might last a good while.”
“For months,” replied Stenson, “and I may last for years. I consulted the doctor yesterday; I do so every year.”
“You are waiting for his death, then, to reveal something of importance. But you are aware that he is said to be capable of having people whom he is afraid of assassinated. What do you think on that subject?”
Stenson answered by a look of surprise, which M. Goefle thought unquestionably assumed, for it was succeeded immediately by an expression of repressed anxiety. Stenson knew how to restrain himself, but not how to dissimulate.
“Stenson,” said the lawyer, with the energy of genuine sincerity, as he took both the old man’s hands in his, “I tell you again, some oppressive secret is weighing upon you. Open your heart to me as afriend. You may rely upon me, if there is an injustice to be made good.”
Stenson hesitated for some moments; then, taking a key from his pocket, he opened, in an agitated manner, a drawer of his desk, and, showing M. Goefle a small sealed box, he said:
“Your word of honor?”
“I give it you!”
“And upon the holy Bible?”
“Upon the holy Bible—now then?—”
“Well, then, if I die beforehim, open, read, and act. But only after I am dead.”
M. Goefle glanced at the box, and saw his own name and address upon it.
“You had already chosen me for this trust,” he said; “I thank you for it, my friend, but, if your life is threatened, why not tell me the whole at once? There, dear M. Stenson, I am beginning to open my eyes! The baron—”
Stenson made a sign that he would not answer.
“He starved his sister-in-law to death!”
“No,” cried Stenson, with the emphasis of truth, “no, no! That was not the case!”
“But that declaration respecting her pregnancy—she was forced to sign it.”
“She signed voluntarily, of her own free-will. I was present, and signed it also myself.”
“But what became of her body? Was it thrown to the dogs?”
“Oh, my God! Was I not there? It was buried with religious services.”
“By you?”
“By my own hands. But you are inquisitive! Give me the box!”
“Do you doubt my oath?”
“No,” replied the old man; “keep it—and ask me no more questions.”
He once more pressed M. Goefle’s hands, took a seat near the fire, and, either in reality or by design, relapsed into entire deafness. M. Goefle, to divert his mind, and hoping, after a little, to drawhim again into a confidential mood, endeavored to talk with him about the lawsuit on which the baron had consulted him in the morning. But this time he was obliged to write what he wanted to say, when the old man answered with his usual clearness. His opinion was that the mineral property of the mountain-track in litigation belonged to the Count de Rosenstein, a neighbor of the baron. He stated good grounds for this belief, and, after searching among his papers, which were all arranged and marked with the greatest care, he laid out the actual proofs. M. Goefle observed that this was his own opinion, and that he should be forced to have a disagreement with the baron, if the latter should persist in seeking to employ him in a bad cause. He added some reflections as to the presumed wicked character of his client, but Stenson showed no signs of understanding these allusions; and as it is impossible to take a person by surprise in a written conversation, M. Goefle had to give up the idea of questioning him further.
On his way back to the bear-room, the lawyer considered whether he ought to communicate to Christian the understanding he had entered into with Stenson, and concluded that he was, on the whole, bound to silence. He was, besides, not just now in a confidential humor. Agitated by a thousand strange thoughts and contradictory suppositions, his brain was as actively at work as if he had just been intrusted with a difficult suit full of important questions. The exact contrary was the case, for Stenson had prohibited him from even feeling curiosity. This interdict, however, was altogether null; M. Goefle could not at all impose silence upon the tumult of his hypotheses. However, Christian’s attitude made it easy for him to be reserved. Far from questioning him, the young man had forgotten all about their last conversation, and was absorbed by his comedy. He was, moreover, very much discouraged; and when the lawyer asked if he had arranged to do without his assistant, he answered that he had been trying in vain to do so for the last hour. He could, it is true, dispense with his services after a fashion; but at the risk of many accidents and undesirable omissions in the presentation of the piece. On the whole,he would have to make such heavy drafts on his brain and strength, and undergo such great fatigue, that he felt like giving up the whole thing.
“It is true,” he said to M. Goefle, who was trying to encourage him. “I give you my word that, to use a juggler’s phrase, the game is not worth the candle. In plain words, I should tire myself to death, without benefit to my reputation, and I should swindle the baron out of his money. Do you know what I intend to do, M. Goefle? Renouncing the idea of shining in this neighborhood, I shall bundle up all this luggage, and take up my line of march for some town where I can look up another assistant, competent to help me in representing, and pious enough to keep the oath which I shall exact from him, to drink nothing but water, even though all the mountains of Sweden should run down with wine!”
“The devil! the devil!” exclaimed M. Goefle, greatly discomposed at the idea of losing his fellow-lodger; “if I thought I could make these small gentlemen perform a little—but, pshaw! I never could learn it!”
“Nothing easier. Try. The forefinger in the head, the thumb in one arm, the middle finger in the other—that’s it! that’s it, exactly. Come, make a bow. Lift the hands towards heaven!”
“That’s easy enough! But to make the gestures match the words, and then to find something to say! I can only improvise monologue.”
“Well, that’s a great deal. Come, now, argue a case. Lift that arm, and forget that you are M. Goefle; keep your eye on the figure that you are directing. As you speak, the gestures that you would naturally make with your arms, and the whole carriage of your person, will be reproduced of themselves at your fingers’ ends. You only need to be convinced that theburattinois a real person, and to transfer your individuality from yourself to him.”
“Diantre!That is very easy for you to say; but without any practice—well, let’s try it. Suppose I am arguing,—what shall I argue, by the way?”
“Defend the baron from the charge of having caused the assassination of his brother!”
“Defend! I would rather argue against than for him.”
“If you are against him, you will be pathetic; if for him, you may perhaps be comic.”
“So be it,” said M. Goefle, extending the hand on which he held the marionette, and making it gesticulate. “Here goes; attend:
“What accusation can you bring against my client, you who reproach him for an action so simple and natural as merely the suppression of a troublesome member of his family? Why should he be blamed for that? When has it ever been expected that a man fond of money and display should pay regard to the vulgar consideration which you call the right to live? The right to live! We all claim it equally, and if we have the right to live, have we not also the right to live as we please? But if we cannot live without a considerable fortune, without the privileges of an elevated station; if we find that we should die of shame and mortification, fairly burst with ennui, to use a colloquial phrase, unless able to command luxury, castles, credit, and power; if all this is so, why, then, we possess the right, we demand the right, we seize the right, of removing from our path all obstacles whatever which may impede the most expansive, extensive, and radiant development of our whole moral and physical being. In our justification we may—”
“Higher!” interrupted Christian, who was laughing at the satirical argument of the lawyer.
“We may cite,” continued M. Goefle, elevating the pitch of his voice, “the traditions of ancient times, from Cain down to the great King Birger-Iarl, who starved his two brothers to death in the chateau of Nikœping. Yes, gentlemen, we point you to the ancient customs of the north, and, moreover, to the glorious example of the court of Russia of late years. Who of you will venture to weigh petty moralities against the great consideration of a reason of state? I say a reason of state, gentlemen. Do you know what that is?”
“Higher!” repeated Christian; “higher, M. Goefle!”
“A reason of state,” squealed M. Goefle, in a falsetto—for the range of his voice did not extend high at all—“a reason of state is, in my judgment—”
“Higher!”
“Go to the devil! I shall burst my pharynx! I’ve had enough, thank you, if I’ve got to scream in that way.”
“Why, no, my dear sir! I did not tell you to speak higher. I’ve been lifting up my arm to you this hour; you do not observe that if you hold the marionette down there at the level of your breast no one can see it, and that you will be playing exclusively for your own benefit. See here: your hand must be higher than your head. Come, now, let’s try a dialogue. I am the counsel on the other side, and I interrupt you in an excess of indignation, which I cannot restrain: ‘I absolutely cannot endure this any longer; and since the judges think proper to sit sleeping on the bench before such an abuse of the faculty of human speech, notwithstanding the specious eloquence of my illustrious and powerful adversary, I—’ Interrupt me, M. Goefle; you must always interrupt.”
“‘The counsel for the prosecution,’” said M. Goefle, “‘is not arguing at present.’ I am playing the judge, now.”
“Very good; but use another voice.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes, indeed; you have one hand free. Pinch your nose.”
“Good!” said M. Goefle, with a strong twang. “‘The counsel for the prosecution will speak in his own turn.’”
“Bravo! ‘I insist on speaking this moment! I demand the right of confounding the odious sophistry of the defence!—’”
“‘Odious sophistry!’”
“Capital! oh, capital! In an angry tone! Now I reply: ‘Orator without principle! I hand you over to the ban of Public Opinion!’ Give me a slap, M. Goefle.”
“What!—give you a slap?”
“Certainly, my lawyer, I mean; fair in the face, and let it be a loud one. The public always laughs at that sound. Hold tight with yourfingers; I’m going to pull your cap off. Now we collar each other. Bravo! Pull the marionette off my fingers with yours, and throw it over into the audience. The children run after it, pick it up, examine it with admiration, and throw it back into the theatre. Take care and have it fall on its head; the public will almost burst with laughter. God only knows what for, but they always do it. Abuse and blows are a delightful spectacle to the crowd; and under cover of the laughter, your personage marches off the stage with a triumphant air.”
“And we have time to take breath! In good season, too; I have talked myself hoarse.”
“Take breath? Oh, not at all! The operators can never stop to take breath. We must hurry and take the actors for the next scene; and for fear the audience will lose its interest before an empty stage, we must keep up the dialogue, as if the actors who just went off were still quarrelling behind the scenes, or as if those on the point of coming on were chattering about what had just happened.”
“Plague on it! Why it’s a business that would wear out a horse!”
“I don’t deny it; still you get excited and warmed up, and keep on growing more and more spirited. Well, let us try another scene, M. Goefle. Let us bring out—”
“But I have had quite enough of it, I believe. Do you suppose I want to help you conduct the exhibition?”
“I thought you meant that you would help me this evening!”
“I? What! I go on the stage?”
“Who will know that it is you? The theatre will be set up immediately before the door of a room where no one is allowed to enter. There is a curtain between you and the audience; and, if necessary, you can mask yourself, if there is any risk of being met in the corridors as you go in or out.”
“True enough, nobody sees you, nobody knows that you are there; but my voice, my pronunciation? Before I should have uttered a dozen wordsevery one would say: ‘Good! that’s M. Goefle!’ A fine effect that would have, from a man of my age, practising a dignified profession! It’s impossible; don’t think of it.”
“It’s a great pity—you would succeed capitally!”
“Do you think so?”
“Most assuredly. You would have secured me a great success.”
“But that devil of a voice of mine, that everybody knows!”
“There are a thousand ways of changing that. I can show you three or four in a quarter of an hour, and that is more than you would need for this evening.”
“Well, what are they? If I were only sure that nobody would suspect me of such a piece of nonsense! Ah, there’s an instrument that I can see the use of—a nose-pinch! And this one is to be used in the mouth, either on the tongue or under it.”
“Oh no!” said Christian; “those are rude contrivances that Puffo uses. You are too intelligent to need them. Now listen, and imitate me.”
“Really,” said M. Goefle, after some experiments that were promptly successful, “it is not so bad! I used to act in private theatricals in my younger days, and I did as well as other people. I understand very well how to imitate a toothless old man, a drawling coxcomb, and a pedant that licks his lips at every word. Now, if you will not make me talk too much and fatigue my throat, I will go through three or four scenes with you. But we must have a rehearsal. What is the piece? Where is it? What’s the name?”
“Wait a minute, M. Goefle. I have a number of manuscripts that you would be ready with after reading them over once; especially since the one represented, summed up in few words, and written in large letters, is always hung up before us inside of the front of the theatre. But what I should like in playing with you is, to arrange a new piece, which would entertain you more, and would give scope to your faculty for improvising. Now, if you will take my opinion, we will go right towork, and get one up between us.”
“That’s an excellent idea!” said M. Goefle. “Well, quick, then! let’s sit down here; we can make room enough on this table. What shall the subject be?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Well, then, your own history, Christian; or at least some parts of it, just as you told it to me.”
“No, M. Goefle, my history is not an amusing one, and it would not inspire me with any brilliant fancies. The only romantic part of it is just that which I am myself ignorant about, and I have often taken this as the basis of my Stentarello’s adventures. Stentarello, you know, is a personage who adapts himself to all characters and all situations. Well, one of my fancies is to attribute to him a mysterious birth, such as mine was; and I often begin my pieces by making him narrate the precise circumstances of that story, whether true or false, which the little Jew told Sophia Goffredi. I have sometimes amused myself by the idea that I should some day hear an exclamation or a cry in the audience that would be the means of directing me to my mother. But that is a mere fancy. As for Stentarello, he is a comic individual, sometimes young and sometimes old, according as I nail a blond or a white wig on his head. Of course, in order to be laughed at, he must be ridiculous. In such a plot as I refer to, and which I propose that we should adopt, he goes about in search of his parents, taking it for granted that he is nothing less than the natural son of a king. Then the action of the piece takes him through a series of absurd adventures, in the course of which he makes various ridiculous blunders, until he ends by discovering that he is the son of a mere country clown; but by that time he has had so many mortifications, that he thinks himself fortunate to find food and shelter with his father.”
“Very good,” said M. Goefle, “we will make him an epicure, and the son of a cook or confectioner.”
“Exactly the thing. That’s the idea. Well, shall we begin?”
“Do you write, if you can do it legibly. My writing can hardly be read. My hand can’t keep up with the flow of my ideas, and I scratch away like a cat. The deuce—what a good hand! But what are you doing?”
“Putting down thedramatis personæ.”
“Yes, I see that; but you have written in the first act:Stentarello in swaddling clothes?”
“That is my idea. I am tired of making my poor Stentarello repeat the story of being let down by a cord out of a window into a boat. If you agree, I will paint that scene instead.”
“Paint it? But how the devil will you do it?”
“I have an old castle amongst my scenery here.”
“What good will that do?”
“I will transform it into Stollborg. We will give it another name, but I will use the same romantic view that struck me so forcibly on the lake at sunset, and of which I made a sketch.”
“You are going to paint?”
“Yes; while you write, whether well or ill, it makes no difference; I have deciphered such quantities of hieroglyphics with my poor Goffredi! Remember, we have very little time. I have whatever is necessary to change my scenes for the requirements of any special occasion. A little dissolved glue in a tin box, and a few bags of powdered paint of different colors, are enough. The canvas is no larger than the back of my theatre, and the colors dry in five minutes. That will be about as much time as I shall need to introduce a window into my square tower. See, Monsieur Goefle, in the first place I render it practicable by making a slit in the canvas with my shears, and then I warm my glue on the stove. With this charcoal I sketch that row of great boulders. Some of them hang over—I studied them carefully, for it is a wonderful group. I give the tone of ice to this foreground—oh no, it must be water, since we are to have a boat—”
“Where will you get it?”
“In the property-box there. Don’t you suppose I have a boat? There are ships, too, and carriages, and carts, and all kinds of animals. Icould not get along at all without that collection of profiles that are necessary in all my pieces, and which take up very little room. Another idea, M. Goefle: I will put the boat in that vault under the boulders.”
“What for?”
“Why, because it will give us a splendid effect! We are to have a very mysterious birth for our infant, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“Environed with perils?”
“Necessarily.”
“A natural child?”
“As you please about that.”
“A jealous husband? No, no adulterers! If this does really happen to be my own story, I should prefer not to be the fruit of an unlawful love. My mother—poor woman, I have perhaps nothing with which to reproach her—is saving me from the vengeance of some brother or savage uncle, capable of killing me in order to hide a discreditable or clandestine marriage.”
“Very good; I’ll be the Spanish nobleman—some implacable uncle who is trying to kill the child! The innocent creature is concealed in the bottom of the lake, at the risk of a little drowning, after having been thrown out of the window, to save it from all danger.”
“Oh, no, no, M. Goefle! you are altogether too fantastic! That is not my style at all. I always maintain a certain verisimilitude, even in romancing, for you can neither make people laugh nor cry with impossible situations. No, no, we must have some regular assassins, as ugly and grotesque as they can be made. While they are standing guard on top of the boulders, watching the window, the boat, which fortunately has already stealthily received its precious charge—that’s the regular style—glides noiselessly along beneath the rocks, under the very feet of the unsuspecting watch. The audience is affected, and all the more because it is laughing at the same time at the faces of the assassins—people like extremely to laugh and cry at the same time—and the curtain falls on the first act, amid thunders of applause!”
“Excellent, excellent!” said M. Goefle; “but, while you are moving the boat, will there be no person at the window?”
“Certainly. Have I not two hands? With the left I propel the skiff over the limpid waves, and with the right I hold up at the window the faithful waiting-woman, who has lowered down the basket, and who lifts towards heaven her pretty little wooden arms in an attitude of supplication, and prays in a sweet voice, ‘Divine Providence! watch over the child of mystery!’”
“Yes, but the mother; is she not to be seen?”
“No, that would not be the correct thing.”
“And the father?”
“The father is in Palestine. That is the place where we always send the people we don’t know what to do with.”
“That will do very well; but if there are to be assassins, a haughty Castilian uncle, and a faithful waiting-woman, Stentarello must belong to a noble family.”
“The devil! yes; how shall we arrange that?”
“It is perfectly easy. The child whom we lower from the window is the young Alonzo, son of the duchess. Stentarello is the son of his grace’s pastry-cook.”
“But what is the pastry-cook to do?”
“I don’t know. It’s your business to find that out. If you keep on painting you won’t help me at all.”
“But only see, M. Goefle, how beautifully my sky is coming out!”
“Too much so; it is too prominent.”
“You are right, so it is! What an eye you have, M. Goefle! I must bring up the color of my donjon, then, a little.”
“That will do very well. That rosy sky is just about right now, and gives a very good idea of the brilliant cloud effects that we have here. But that is not a Spanish sky, is it?”
“Well, why not lay the scene in Sweden?”
“Oh dear me, no! Don’t you see that as we have arranged the play, particularly with that view of Stollborg that you have been painting, a certain comparison might be suggested—if you should give yourimagination free play?”
“With the story of the Baroness de Waldemora?”
“Might there not? In reality there would be no sort of similarity, since she had no child. But there are persons who might suppose that we were representing the pretended captivity of theGray Lady. No, Christian, lay the scene in Spain; it will do much better.”
“Spain be it, then! Well, the pastry-cook has a son, just born, who is to grow up into the illustrious Stentarello. Now, the cook of the chateau, who has sent to this pastry-cook by order of the baron—”
“The baron?”
“That is your fault, you put the baron into my head by talking of your possible comparisons. Our traitor must be called Don Diego, or Don Sancho.”
“With all my heart. Now, the baron’s cook—There! I am as bad as you!—Don Sancho’s, I mean—what did he send to the pastry-cook?”
“A magnificent pie in a basket, to be baked.”
“I see, I see! He had placed this basket in the boat. The boatman, employed to carry off and preserve the Child of Mystery, does not notice it, and thus carries away two baskets; then he makes a mistake, and puts the pie out to nurse, and gives the pastry-cook the baby to bake.”
“So the good pastry-cook brings up both the children, or, rather, he mistakes and brings up the child of the duchess. Thus there arise endless entanglements, and we can go forward with confidence to our denouement. Courage, M. Goefle! the painting is done, and now for the pen again. Let us arrange the scenes. Scene First: The cook, solus.”
“Wait, Christian! Why not have the child quietly carried down by a staircase?”
“True, particularly as Stollborg has a secret staircase, but it was watched by the assassins.”
“Were they incorruptible?”
“No, but the duchess is very short of money, while the traitor has his pockets full.”
“Why don’t he go himself to the tower where his victim is imprisoned, and throw the child out of the window, without so much ceremony?”
“I really don’t know. We must make it out that the child is not yet born, and that they are waiting for the fatal moment.”
“That will do very well! The child, then, must be born at the very moment that Don Sancho enters the donjon and ascends the stairs. Paquito, the waiting-woman, lowers down the infant that has just seen the light. But tell me, is the child to be visible?”
“Certainly. I am going to paint it in its cradle. There’s a string for the rope. All those things are cut out in profile; they are to be seen from a distance.”
“So the traitor, to his great disappointment, finds the bird flown. What does he do? Shall we make him fall out of the window and break his skull on the rocks?”
“Oh no! Keep that for the catastrophe of the piece; it’s a capital one.”
“Very well then, in his rage he kills his unhappy niece. A cry is heard, and the murderer appears at the window, exclaiming: ‘My honor is avenged!’—”
“His honor! I would rather have him say: ‘My fortune is made!’”
“Why?”
“Because he is the heir of the duchess. We must not make him a scoundrel by halves, since we are to fracture his skull for him at the end.”
“That is certainly very logical, but—”
“But what?”
“Why, that would be the exact history of Baron Olaus, as his enemies relate it. A female relative imprisoned, who disappears—”
“What difference does it make, as long as you are sure that the story is not true?”
“I am as sure as it is possible to be; and yet—do you know, with your mysterious voice, your idea of a prisoner in the vaults down below, your explanation of my last night’s vision, and your verses from the Bible, you have made me a perfect dreamer; my mind is filled with allsorts of strange notions.”
“But as there is every reason to believe that these notions are nothing more than the work of our own imaginations, we shall run no risk of offending any one. And besides, M. Goefle, even if, under my mask and with my assumed name of Christian Waldo, I should awaken unpleasant memories in the baron’s mind, please to tell me what difference that will make to me? or to you either, since you will be perfectly incognito as well as myself—”
“But it will be easy for the baron to have me watched and discovered;—he has only to give orders to some of those rascally servants of his—”
“Oh, if you are to be exposed to any real danger, let us give it up at once; but in that case we must choose another subject immediately.”
M. Goefle was silent, and absorbed in thought for some moments, greatly to the annoyance of the impatient Christian, who saw with anxiety the steady advance of the hands of the clock. At last, the advocate, striking his forehead, and jumping up with a certain nervous excitement of manner, cried out, as he began to pace rapidly up and down the room:
“Well, well! Who can say that I am not shrinking from the pursuit of the real truth? Shall I be a mere cowardly courtier of this problematical being? Is it not my duty to satisfy myself once for all? Shall I let it be said that an adventurer—let me rather say a good and handsome child of fortune, who most surely deserves a better fate—that he, in his heedless career, is courageous enough to defy a powerful enemy, while I, dedicated by my very office to the service of the truth, the appointed defender of human and divine justice, allow myself to be lulled to sleep by a selfish indolence, not far removed from cowardice? Christian,” added M. Goefle, resuming his seat, but still with much excitement of manner, “go on to the second act! Let us make a terrible thing of it! Let your marionettes cover themselves with glory! They shall be real persons, living beings, instruments of destiny,like the players in the tragedy of Hamlet, who terrify and make pale the triumphant criminal, who is finally unmasked. Come, to work! Suppose—suppose all the crimes which are charged against the baron; that he poisoned his father, assassinated his brother, and starved his sister-in-law to death.”
“Precisely; in this room, too!” said Christian, who was thinking of the scenery for his third act. “What a capital scene it will make! We must make the child—the son of the duchess, of course—come back at the end of twenty-five years, to search out the truth and punish the murderer! We can make the marionettes break down the mysterious wall, and discover there—behind that brick-work—I could very quickly get up the scenery for that, I should have time enough—”
“Discover what?” asked M. Goefle.
“I don’t know,” replied Christian, suddenly becoming thoughtful, and even gloomy. “The ideas that occur to me are so terrible, that I must give up that part of the plot; it takes away all my inspiration; and, instead of continuing the piece, I should have to go and break down that wall myself, out of a mere rage of curiosity—”
“Come, come, friend Christian, don’t go crazy! It is quite enough if I am so; this whole thing is nothing but imagination, and I cannot conscientiously attach weight to suspicions which perhaps originate only in an overworked stomach, or a brain restless from inaction. Come, finish the piece, and let it be inoffensive if it is to be amusing. For my part, I must do a little work for myself; I have a portfolio of papers to examine that Stenson gave me, and I must prepare a definite opinion upon them, for I promised the baron this morning to have it ready, and he may send for it at any moment.”
Christian accordingly set to work at his drama, and M. Goefle at his parcel of papers, each at the end of a long table, to the middle of which they had pushed the breakfast dishes. Ulphilas now entered, and silently began to rearrange the table. He was in his usual state of half-conscious drunkenness, and shortly he entered upon a longdiscussion with M. Goefle, which Christian neither understood nor heard, as to the merits of a certain soup of milk, beer and syrup, a national dish, which M. Goefle wanted for supper, and which Ulphilas claimed to prepare as skilfully as any man in Sweden. By the promise of this delicacy he disarmed the anger of the lawyer, who had scolded him for getting his little valet tipsy. Ulphilas, besides, swore he did not know what M. Goefle meant, and perhaps in good faith, considering the steady coolness with which he himself carried all kinds of liquors.
By six o’clock, Christian had completed his task, while M. Goefle, who seemed restless and agitated, was still at work. As Christian happened to look towards him, he noticed the fixed and abstracted expression of his eyes. Supposing that this might be the lawyer’s usual appearance while at his work, he abstained for a time from interrupting him, but finally thought it necessary to ask, which he did a little uneasily, if he would not read the outline of the piece.
“Yes, certainly,” said M. Goefle; “but why not read it over to me?”
“Impossible, M. Goefle. I must select my actors, arrange their costumes in some sort of harmony, collect my scenes, load my ass, and hurry over to the new chateau, so as to take possession of the quarters intended for us, set up the theatre, arrange the lights, etc. I have not a moment to lose; we must begin at eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock? The devil! What a detestable hour! They don’t have supper at the chateau until ten o’clock, and pray when shall we have our supper?”
“Oh, to be sure! The fifth meal of the day!” cried Christian, in despair, but rapidly continuing his preparations. “For heaven’s sake, M. Goefle, have your supper now, and be ready an hour from this time! You can read over the piece while you are eating.”
“Oh, of course! A fine regimen you propose! To eat without an appetite, and to read in the meanwhile, so as to make it impossible for me to digest my food.”
“Very well; then let us think no more about it! I’ll try to get alongby myself. I’ll do my best! Pshaw! Some good angel or other will come to my rescue.”
“No, no!” cried M. Goefle; “by no means! I’ll be the good angel. I promised you; and I’m a man of my word.”
“No, M. Goefle; I thank you, however, all the same. You are not used to the business. It will not suit a reasonable man like you to interrupt your important business to put a fool’s cap on your head! It was indiscreet in me to think of such a thing.”
“What!” exclaimed M. Goefle. “Pray what do you take me for? A mere babbler, who makes promises that he knows he can’t keep; or an old pedant, who don’t know enough to talk good nonsense?”
Christian saw that the best way to keep the lawyer up to the enterprise was to oppose him, and that the worthy gentleman was really very much in earnest in his scheme of transforming himself into a merry-andrew, without any more preparation than Christian himself required. He continued, therefore, to maintain his show of reluctance as to accepting his services, and did not leave him until he was almost vexed at Christian’s doubts, besides being fully resolved, and, indeed, all on fire to fulfil his engagement; even although he should have to eat his milk-and-beer soup without an appetite, and no matter how tremendous the violation of all his customary habits.
Christian had proceeded half way from Stollborg to Waldemora, when he suddenly found himself face to face with a sort of black phantom, speeding over the ice with uneven leaps. It required but a moment’s thought to recognize M. Stangstadius, who, like himself, was carrying a small dark lantern, and who was evidently preparing to accost him. Feeling very confident that he would not be recognized by a person so oblivious of others, he thought it unnecessary to put down his mask, or to change his voice in answering him.
“Hallo, my friend!” called out the man of science, without even condescending to look at him; “do you come from Stollborg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see Dr. Goefle there?”
“No, monsieur,” replied Christian, who saw at once how dangerous to his colleague’s good resolutions the professor’s visit might prove.
“What!” said Stangstadius; “Dr. Goefle not at Stollborg? He told me he was lodging there.”
“He was,” said Christian, with great coolness, “but he left for Stockholm two hours ago.”
“Left? Left without waiting for my visit, when I told him this very morning that I would come and take supper with him at the old tower? It’s impossible.”
“He must have forgotten it.”
“Forgotten! Forgotten thatIwas coming to see him. That’s a likely story, indeed!”
“Well, sir,” said Christian, “you can go over there if you choose. You will find neither supper nor company.”
“Well, then, I must give it up. But it’s the most extraordinary thing. That poor Goefle must have gone crazy!”
Turning about, M. Stangstadius walked along by the side of Christian, who continued on towards the chateau; but in a few seconds the philosopher, on reflection, changed his purpose, and, talking aloud to himself after his fashion, said:
“So, Goefle has gone off! Well, he’s a scatter-brained, extravagant fellow. But there’s that nephew of his—for he has a nephew—a charming young man and a capital talker. He must have told him that I was coming, and he no doubt is waiting for me. I must go over; certainly I must!”
Stopping abruptly, he turned to Christian:
“See here, friend,” he cried, “I have made up my mind to go to Stollborg after all, and as I have been walking a great deal to-day in the snow, I am extremely tired. Lend me your pony, will you?”
“It would give me great pleasure to do so, monsieur; but if you are proposing to go there after M. Goefle’s nephew—”
“Certainly, yes; Christian Goefle, that’s his name. Did you see him?You are one of the servants at Stollborg, I suppose. Very well, go back there with me. Give me the beast, walk on ahead, and tell them to prepare supper. That’s a good idea.”
Thereupon M. Stangstadius, without troubling himself to wait for leave from Christian, undertook to mount Jean, whom he persisted in taking for a horse, and whose small stature and quiet pace had impressed him very favorably. As to his load, he paid no sort of attention to that, although it was very effectually in his way.
“Let the beast alone, will you!” said Christian, annoyed at his obstinacy. “M. Goefle’s nephew went away with his uncle, and Stollborg is shut up like a prison.”
“The young man gone too!” cried Stangstadius, in the greatest amazement. “Mon Dieu!some great misfortune must have happened in that family, or both uncle and nephew would never have forgotten my promise. But they must, anyhow, have left a letter for me, and I’ll go and get it.”
“They did not leave any letter,” said Christian, bethinking him of a new expedient; “they directed me to say to some person of the name of Stangstadius at the new chateau that they had been obliged to go away. That is why I am going to the new chateau.”
“Person of the name of Stangstadius!” cried the insulted philosopher; “is that what they said?”
“No, monsieur; that is what I said. I don’t know this M. Stangstadius, myself.”
“Ah, you said it, did you, you idiot? Person of the name of Stangstadius, indeed! Don’t know him yourself, you great beast! Good, by George! I like that! Very well, learn to know me, then. I am the first naturalist—But what’s the use? Such monstrous ignoramuses as one finds on this poor earth! Stop your horse, you animal! Did I not tell you I wanted to ride? I’m tired, I say. Do you suppose I don’t know how to manage any kind of beast whatever?”