XVI.

XVI.

WHILE the young people at the new chateau were enjoying their innocent games, M. Goefle and Christian were making all sorts of comments upon the discoveries relative to his birth which the latter thought he had made. M. Goefle did not agree with his young friend. His ideas, he said, were altogether fanciful, and more ingenious than logical. For his own part, he seemed more than ever tormented by some idea which he at the same time wished and feared to explain.

“Christian, Christian!” he said, shaking his head, “do not torment yourself by dwelling on this nightmare. No, no; you are not the son of Baron Olaus! I would stake putting my hand in the fire on that.”

“And yet,” replied Christian, “is it not true that there is a certain resemblance between his features and mine? When he had fainted, and while his blood was dropping on the snow, his cruel and sardonic face assumed the expression of supreme repose which is given by death, and I gazed upon him in terror. No man, it is true (or so it seems to me), at least unless he has passed all his life before a mirror, or is a portrait-painter, can have a very exact idea of his own appearance; but still his face seemed familiar to me in a vague sort of way, and gradually it began to appear like my own. I had the same feeling when I saw him for the first time. I did not say to myself, ‘I have seen him somewhere;’ I said, ‘I know him, I have always known him.’”

“Well, well,” said M. Goefle, “and I too, by heavens! when I saw you the first time, noticed the same thing. And now again, at this very moment, when your face is serious and abstracted, I recognize, if not a resemblance, at least a similarity of outline that is striking—extraordinary. But it is precisely that, my dear friend, which makes me tell you: ‘No, you are not his son!’”

“Really, M. Goefle, I do not understand you at all.”

“Oh! that is not your case alone! I don’t understand myself. And yet I have an idea, a fixed idea!—If that obstinate Stenson would only speak! But it was all in vain that I tormented him again to-day for two hours; he told me nothing of the slightest importance. Either he begins to wander at moments, or he pretends resolutely to be deaf and abstracted, when he does not wish to answer. If I had heard of this Karine, and had known that she was mixed up in our affairs, I might, perhaps, have drawn something out of him, at least in regard to her. You say that the danneman’s son pretends that she could tell a great many secrets if she chose. Unluckily, she also is crazy, it seems, or else so intimidated and enfeebled that she is afraid to confess! However, it is absolutely necessary that we succeed in clearing up our doubts, for either I am a fool, Christian, or you are now in your own country, and perhaps are upon the point of discovering who you are. Come, then! think, help me! that is, listen to me. Your appearance at the new chateau has caused a great deal of trouble and anxiety there, and you must know—”

At this moment some one knocked at the door, after having tried in vain to open it without knocking. M. Goefle, unobserved by Christian, had cautiously drawn the bolt. Christian was going to open the door, when M. Goefle stopped him.

“Go under the staircase,” he said, “and leave me to manage this business.”

Christian, who was exceedingly preoccupied, obeyed mechanically, and M. Goefle went to open the door, but without allowing the unexpected visitor to enter. It was Johan.

“You again!” he said curtly, and in a severe tone. “What do you want, Monsieur Johan?”

“Excuse me, Monsieur Goefle, I want to speak to Christian Waldo.”

“He is not here.”

“He has, however, returned here; I know it, Monsieur Goefle.”

“Look for him, but not in my apartment. I am at work, and wish to bequiet. This is the third time that you have disturbed me.”

“I ask a thousand pardons, monsieur, but since you share your room with him, I thought I might come again to convey his lordship’s orders to this comedian.”

“His orders—what orders?”

“In the first place, to get ready his entertainment; then to be at the new chateau at eight precisely, as yesterday; and, in conclusion, to play something very gay.”

“You repeat yourself, my good fellow; you have already told me the same thing twice, and in precisely the same terms—But are you sure that you know what you are saying? Is not the baron seriously ill this evening? While you are prowling round the old chateau like a shadow, are you aware of what is occurring at the new chateau?”

“I have just seen his lordship this very moment,” replied Johan, with his eternal smile of impertinent humility. “His lordship is quite well; and it is because he sent me here that I am forced, to my great regret, to be excessively importunate. Notwithstanding, I must add that his lordship is very desirous of conversing with the honorable M. Goefle during the comedy of marionettes.”

“Very good; I will attend to it. I wish you good-evening.”

Thereupon M. Goefle shut the door in the face of the disappointed Johan.

“Why all these precautions?” said Christian, coming from his retreat, where he had listened to this dialogue.

“Because something is going on here—I was about to tell you so when we were interrupted—that I do not understand. All day long, this Johan—the most detestable wretch alive, if I can judge from his appearance, and from Stenson’s opinion—has done nothing but prowl around Stollborg, and you are the object of his curiosity. In the first place he questioned Stenson about you, who does not know you at all, and who only learned to-day (precisely from this Johan) that you and I were both of us stopping here. Then he had a long talk in the stable with your servant Puffo, and another in the kitchen of thegaard, with Ulphilas. He would have made Nils talk if I had not kept him close by me the whole day. I really believe this spy tried to make your ass confess.”

“Luckily, my honest Jean is discretion itself,” said Christian. “But I do not see why the efforts of this lackey to see my face should make you uneasy. Since I have worn a mask, I have been accustomed to excite just such curiosity; but I intend to have done forever with this puerile mystery and with these childish persecutions. As I am obliged to return to the chateau this evening, I will go with my face uncovered.”

“No, Christian, you must not do that; I forbid it. You must be patient for a few days longer! An important secret is challenging our investigation; it is our business to discover it, and I will discover it, or lose my reputation; but you must not show your face. You must not even let Ulph see you again. You are certainly threatened by some danger. Johan, with his stealthy, sidelong glance, is not the only person I have seen gliding about the passages of Stollborg. Either I am very much mistaken, or I noticed a thorough blackguard walking around the donjon on the ice, at just about nightfall—a certain fellow who has been honored by the baron his master with the fantastic name of Captain Chimère. With our comedy last evening, we may have put fire to powder. The baron unquestionably is suspicious about you, for some cause or other; and if you will take my advice, you will pretend to be ill, and not go to the new chateau at all.”

“Oh, as to that, Monsieur Goefle, I beg your pardon, but the baron cannot frighten me, no matter what he may do. If I am so fortunate as not to be related to him, I am in precisely the mood to defy him, and to squeeze vigorously any hand that ventures so much as to touch the tapestry of my theatre, if I choose to remain incognito. Remember that I have killed two bears to-day, and consequently that my nerves are a little excited. Come, come, pardon me, my dear uncle, but it is getting late, and I have only two hours to prepare for my exhibition. I amgoing to look for a play in my library; that is to say, in the bottom of my box, and you must be so good as to play it with me, somehow or other.”

“Christian, I don’t feel like it to-day. I am no longer an actor, but a lawyer; that is to say, a seeker of actual facts, to the very marrow of the bones. Your servant Puffo did not seem to me to be very drunk when I saw him, and he is here, no doubt, in thegaard. Stay, I am going out, and I will call him as I pass, and send him to help you, since you insist upon performing. It will do no harm, perhaps—it will keep you busy, and may avert suspicions. Puffo is devoted to you, is he not?”

“I don’t know, I am sure.”

“But if they should try to fasten a quarrel upon you, he would not leave you in the lurch? He is not a coward?”

“I don’t think so: but feel no anxiety upon that point, Monsieur Goefle. This good Norwegian knife, which my friends lent me for the hunt, is still by my side, and I answer for it that I will make myself respected without the help of any one.”

“Beware of a surprise. That is the only thing I am afraid of for you. For my part, I cannot remain quiet for two minutes. Since you have told me about a child brought up secretly at the danneman’s house, a child with fingers like yours—”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Christian, “I only dreamed the whole story, perhaps; and, at any rate, I must not think about it now. I see at the bottom of this box my poor little marionettes, whom I am now going to exhibit for the last time, or the time before the last; for this, M. Goefle, is the only real and sensible conclusion to which I have been led by all my reflections. I will give up the fool’s cap, and take the hammer of the miner, the axe of the wood-cutter, or the whip of the travelling peasant! And for the rest, I laugh at it! What difference does it make, whether I am the son of an amiable fairy or a wicked iarl? I will be the son of my works; and one need not rack one’s brains to come to a conclusion so simple and so logical.”

“That is right, Christian, that is right!” cried M. Goefle. “I love to hear you talk so; but still, for all that, I have my idea—I hold on to it, I dig into it, I feed it, and now I am going to give it an airing. It may be absurd, but still it is possible! I feel a constant anxiety to see Stenson; I will tear his secret from him! I know, at present, how to set to work. I will return in an hour at the most, and we will go together to the chateau. I will call on the baron to find out what he wants with me, and will observe him carefully. He thinks himself shrewd, but I will be shrewder than he. Yes, that’s the idea—courage! Au revoir, Christian! Come, Nils, light me.—Ah, stay, Christian! here, it seems to me, is Master Puffo!”

In fact, M. Goefle passed Puffo as he went out.

“So, here you are!” said Christian to his servant. “Are you doing better to-day?”

“I am doing capitally, master,” replied the Livornese, in an even ruder tone than usual.

“Well then, my lad, to work! we have not a moment to lose. We shall playThe Marriage of Folly, the piece that you know best: you know it by heart, and will not need a rehearsal.”

“No, if you don’t put in too many of your new gags.”

“I’ll do as I choose about that; but I will not fail to give you your cues, so don’t be alarmed. Go at once to the new chateau with the ass and baggage; put up the theatre, arrange the scenery. Stay—since we have selected the piece, you may as well take the manuscript. For my part, I will dress the actors, and follow you. If you must absolutely run through the scenes, we shall have time enough over there. The audience, you know, always takes a quarter of an hour to find seats and get quiet.”

Puffo started to go out; but, after taking a few steps, paused and hesitated. Johan, while keeping him a prisoner at Stollborg without his knowing it, had aroused him against his master by his insinuations, and Puffo was impatient to get into a quarrel with him. Still, he knew him to be agile and determined, and perhaps also a feeling of involuntaryaffection for Christian had glided, unperceived, into some hidden corner of his brutal and corrupt soul. He took courage, however.

“That is not all, Master Christian,” he said; “I want to know who the rascal was who exhibited the marionettes with you last evening?”

“Oh, ho!” replied Christian, “you are beginning to be uneasy, are you? What makes you suspect that there was any performance last evening?”

“I know there was one, and that I took no part in it.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“I was a little drunk,” said Puffo, raising his voice, “I confess; but I have heard the truth to-day, and I know all about it.”

“The truth,” said Christian, laughing; “would not one say that I had concealed it from your excellency? I have not seen you to-day, Signor Puffo, and even if I had, I am not aware that I owe you an account—”

“I want to know who took the liberty of touching my marionettes?”

“Yourmarionettes, which belong to me, though you seem to forget it, will tell you, perhaps; ask them.”

“I don’t need to question them to know that some one or other took the liberty of replacing me, and, apparently, of earning my wages.”

“Suppose it were so? were you in condition to say a single word last evening?”

“You ought, at least, to have tried me, or else to have given me warning.”

“I must confess that I did not show you that consideration,” replied Christian, impatiently; “but I omitted to do so on purpose, so as to avoid the temptation of punishing you, as you deserved, for your drunkenness.”

“Punishing me!” cried Puffo, advancing upon him in a threatening manner. “Try it a little! Come on!”

At the same time he caught up a marionette, and brandished it over his master’s head like a club. The weapon, though comical, was none the less dangerous, for the head of theburattinois necessarily made of very hard wood, so as to prevent it from being broken in thestage fights. Holding the little figure by its leathern skirt, and hurling it like a flail, Puffo might have broken his adversary’s head, and, perhaps, wished to do so. Christian seized the marionette as it came, and, with the other hand, caught Puffo by the throat, and threw him at his feet.

“Cursed drunkard!” he said, putting his knee on his breast, “you deserve a sound beating, but I scorn to strike you. Off with you! I discharge you on the spot, and never want to hear of you again. I have paid you your week’s wages, and owe you nothing; but as you may have spent it all for drink, I will give you enough to return to Stockholm. Get up, and don’t try any more of your deviltries, or I will strangle you!”

Puffo, who was a good deal bruised, got up in silence. Though brutal, he was not naturally an assassin, and he was humiliated and cowed. Perhaps he felt that he was in the wrong; but his first and great anxiety was to pick up a dozen pieces of gold that had slipped from his belt, and rolled over the floor.

“What is that?” cried Christian, noticing what he was about, and seizing him by the arm. “Stolen money?”

“No!” cried the Livornese, lifting his hand with an heroic gesture, which was sufficiently absurd; “I have not stolen anything here. That money is mine. They gave it to me.”

“What for? Come, speak—I insist upon it!”

“They gave it to me because they wanted to. It is nobody’s business.”

“Who gave it to you? Was it not?—”

Christian paused, fearing to betray suspicions which it was more prudent to conceal.

“Out of my sight!” he said, “and go quickly; for if I discover that you are something worse than a drunkard, I will kill you on the spot! Go, and woe to you if you ever let me see you again!”

Puffo retreated in a great fright. Christian, to keep him at a distance, had laid his hand, purposely, on the major’s large Norwegian knife, and the sight of this terrible weapon was quite sufficient toalarm the Bohemian, whose great fear was that Christian would take his money from him, and insist upon knowing how he had obtained this unexplained wealth.

The Livornese left the donjon in a very undecided state of mind. Johan, who sometimes took the liberty of exceeding the baron’s secret instructions, had not given him this money with a precise understanding that he was to undertake what the trembling Puffo, in the language of the road, calleda bad job; but to persuade him to remain quiet in case his master should be provoked, and drawn into some unequal scuffle. Johan had got everything out of him that he knew; he had learned, through him, that Christian was fiery and intrepid. Without compromising the baron, he had given him to understand that his master had offended some very powerful person at the chateau, and that they had discovered him to be a French spy, and a very mysterious and dangerous person. The lie, although glaring, was not sufficiently gross to have much effect upon Puffo, for he did not know or care anything about politics; but what he did understand was, the sum of money slipped into his pocket. He was intelligent enough to follow out the following course of reasoning: “If they pay me for standing by, they will pay me more for acting!” Accordingly, he resolved to get the start of any one else. He attacked Christian, supposing that he would be without weapons, or means of defence; but he lost courage, and, perhaps, also faltered a little in his wicked purpose. Christian was so good, that the scoundrel’s hand trembled, in spite of himself. Now that he was defeated and humiliated, what should he do?

While Puffo was reflecting to the best of his very limited ability, Christian, more depressed and fatigued in mind than in body, sat down to his coffee, and sank into a melancholy revery.

“What a sad life!” he said to himself, gazing mechanically upon the marionette lying upon the floor, which had come so near cutting his head open. “What poor company men without education are! And yet I shall have to be with them now more than ever! If I return to thedregs of the people, whence I probably emerged, after trying in vain to elevate my condition, I shall often be obliged, I suppose, to put down, by the force of my fist, brutal wretches like this Puffo, who cannot be influenced by kindness and affection. Oh, Jean Jacques! was it such a life as this that you dreamed of for your Emile? And yet you yourself were stoned in your humble chalet, and were forced to abandon the rustic life you loved, because you could not make yourself feared by those who were incapable of comprehending you!

“Come, let me see you! Which of you was it who came so near killing me just now?” he continued, raising his voice to revive his spirits, and picking up the marionette, which was lying with its face to the floor. “O Jupiter! you, my poor little Stentarello! you, my favorite, my protégé, my best servant! you, the oldest of my troupe, lost at Paris and found again so miraculously in the forests of Bohemia! No, it is impossible! you would not have harmed me; you would rather have turned against the assassin. You are worth much more than a host of gigantic marionettes I know of; stupid and wicked marionettes, who claim to belong to the human race, and whose hearts are as hard as their heads. Come, my little friend, put on a white collar, and let me brush your coat, which is covered with dust. I swear that I will never again abandon you! You shall travel with me, though it must be in secret, since otherwise serious people would laugh at us. But still you shall go, and when you feel sad and lonely, because you miss the blaze of the footlights, we two will talk together and console each other. I will confide my sorrows to you, and your sweet smile and bright eyes will recall to my mind the follies of the past; the dreams of love born and vanished within the gloomy walls of Stollborg!”

A child’s laugh made Christian start and turn round. It was Master Nils, who had come in on tip-toe, and who was jumping with joy and clapping his hands at the sight of the animated, and, as it were, living marionette, moving and gesticulating on Christian’s nimble fingers.

“Oh! give me that pretty little boy,” cried the delighted child; “lend him to me a moment, so that I can play with him!”

“No, no!” said Christian, who was in a hurry to arrange Stentarello’s toilet; “my little boy plays with no one but myself; and besides, there is no time. Is not M. Goefle coming back?”

“Oh! let me see all that!” resumed the enraptured Nils, casting a dazzled glance into the box that Christian had just opened, and where glittered, pell-mell, the laced hats, swords, plumed turbans, and pearl coronets of his miniature company. Christian tried to get rid of Nils by gentle means; but the child was so crazy to see and touch all these wonders, that he was obliged to speak in a loud voice, and roll his eyes fiercely, to keep him from running away with his actors and their wardrobe. Then he began to pout, and, going to the other side of the table, said he would complain to M. Goefle that no one would amuse him. His aunt Gertrude had told him that he would be amused when he went travelling, and he wasn’t amused at all.

“But I don’t care for you, you great wretch!” he said, making a face at Christian; “I am going to make some pretty paper boats, and I won’t let you see any of them.”

“All right, all right!” replied Christian, who kept at work arranging the costumes of the marionettes under the supposition that he could rely on M. Goefle’s assistance; “make your boats, my child; make a great many of them, and leave me in peace.”

While pinning hats and cloaks to the heads and around the necks of his little people, Christian glanced every moment at the clock, and grew impatient for M. Goefle’s return. He wanted to send Nils to thegaardto beg him to make haste, but Nils pouted, and pretended not to hear.

“Provided,” said Christian to himself, “we have time to read over the play once, it will be sufficient; without that, I shall be lucky if I can recall it myself, I have had so much on my mind to-day. Ah! I promised the major a hunting-scene; where shall I introduce it? No matter where! An interlude, stolen from the scene of Moron with thebears, in thePrincesse d’Elide. Stentarello shall be brave, charming; he shall laugh at people who kill bears through a net—like the baron, for instance. But, good heavens! I hope Puffo has not carried away the manuscript; I put it in his hands.”

Christian began to search everywhere for his manuscript. To write another would have required half an hour’s work, and the clock was striking seven. He rummaged in his box, which contained the whole of his little repertory. He upset and turned over everything; he was in a fever. The idea of not going to the new chateau at the appointed hour; of appearing afraid to encounter the baron’s hatred (for to this motive his absence might be attributed), was insupportable to him. He was seized with a sudden rage against his enemy, to which his love, perhaps, added intensity. He was burning to defy the Snow Man openly in Margaret’s presence, to show him that an actor was more courageous than many of the noble guests of his chateau.

Just then he looked at Nils; he was very quiet and serious, being busily occupied in making what he was pleased to call his little boats. Around him there was a pile of papers, which he was cutting up for the purpose. He would take a slip of paper, fold it, refold it, and, if the boat did not succeed according to his liking, tear it, rumple it up, and throw it to the floor.

“Ah, bad boy!” cried Christian, snatching from him a handful of torn fragments; “you are cutting up my manuscript into boats!”

Nils began to cry and scream, declaring that the papers were not Christian’s, and trying to fight with him to get them back.

Suddenly Christian, who was hastily unfolding the boats to try and collect the pages of his comedy, became serious, and remained motionless. These papers, in fact, were not his, the writing was not his; and yet his name, or rather one of his names, traced by an unknown hand, had, as it were, riveted his gaze. The first sentence he read aroused his curiosity to the utmost; and this sentence, written inItalian, was as follows: “Christian del Lago is fifteen years old to-day.”

“Stay!” he said to the child, who kept on teasing, and demanding his paper, as he called it; “play with the marionettes, and leave me alone.”

Nils, seeing a handful of little men on the table, rushed up to them with delight, and found enough to do in looking at them and touching them, while Christian, taking the chair that the child had just left, and placing the candle by his side, began to decipher the papers before him, consisting, apparently, of a file of old letters. The writing was detestable, and the Italian, style and orthography, all of a piece, but every word which he read, or guessed, seemed to him more and more extraordinary, and caused him the liveliest amazement.

“Where did you get these papers?” he said to the child, while continuing to collect the torn and rumpled fragments.

“Ah, monsieur, how handsome you are with your great moustache!” cried Nils, gazing in ecstasy upon the marionette.

“Answer, will you?” cried Christian; “where did you find these papers? Do they belong to M. Goefle?”

“No, no,” replied Nils, at last, after making him repeat the question several times. “I did not take them from M. Goefle; he threw them away, and the papers he throws away are mine. They are for making boats; M. Goefle said so this morning.”

“You are telling a story! M. Goefle did not throw these papers away. These are letters; people do not throw letters away, they keep them, or they burn them. You took them out of the drawers of this table.”

“No.”

“From the room, then, where he sleeps?”

“No, no!”

“Tell the truth, at once!”

“No!”

“I will pull your ears.”

“No you won’t; I’ll run away.”

Christian stopped Nils, who tried to make his escape with the marionettes.

“If you tell me the truth,” he said, “I will give you a pretty little horse with a red and gold saddle-cloth.”

“Let me see it.”

“Now,” said Christian, handing him the plaything, which was one of his properties, “speak, brat!”

“Well,” said the child, “this is how it was: I went just now, to light M. Goefle to M. Stenson’s house—you know who I mean, the old man, who, they say, cannot hear anything, who lives in the other court.”

“Yes, I know; go on quickly, and tell the truth, or I will take back my horse.”

“Well, I stayed there to wait for M. Goefle; I was in M. Stenson’s room, where there was a fire, and M. Goefle was in the office next to it, talking loud to M. Stenson.”

“What were they saying?”

“I don’t know, I did not listen; I was playing making a fire in the chimney. And then, all at once, some men came into the office, and they said: ‘Monsieur Stenson, his lordship has been waiting for you for an hour. Why do you not come? You must come at once!’ And then they quarrelled about it, and M. Goefle said: ‘M. Stenson cannot go; he has no time.’ And M. Stenson said: ‘I must go—I am not afraid of anything—I will go at once.’ And then M. Goefle said: ‘I will go with you.’ Then I went into the office because I was afraid they were going to hurt M. Goefle, and there I saw three—or six men, dressed in very nice livery.”

“Three—or six?”

“Or four—I could not count; I was afraid. But M. Goefle cried out, ‘Go away with you!’ and he pushed me on to the staircase, and threw this bundle of papers after me without any one seeing him. Perhaps he did not want them to know that he gave it to me so, and then I picked it up, and ran away, and that is all!”

“And you did not tell me, idiot! What if M. Goefle—”

Christian paused, knowing that it was useless to complain, and, gathering up the papers as quickly as possible, he shut them up in hisbox, took the key, and hastened out. The events thickening around him were becoming more and more incomprehensible, and he felt very anxious about the lawyer’s situation.

Nils had already burst into a roar at being left alone with the marionettes, which frightened him a little, fascinating as they were, when M. Goefle met Christian in the passage, and brought him back into the bear-room. He was pale and agitated.

“Yes, yes,” he said to Christian, who assailed him with questions, “fasten the doors. Something serious is going on here. Where is Nils? Ah, there you are, little one! Where did you put the bundle of papers?”

“He was cutting them up into boats,” said Christian; “here they are, all torn, but nothing is wanting. I picked up every scrap. But what are these strange letters about me, Monsieur Goefle?”

“They are about you, are they? Are you sure of it!”

“Perfectly sure.”

“Have you read them?”

“I have not had time. Master Nils made it a difficult task, and then the writing is villanous; but I am going to read them. M. Goefle, the secret of my life is there.”

“In truth? Yes, I suspected, I was sure, Christian, that you were the person they treated of! But I gave my word to Stenson, on receiving this deposit, not to read the letters before his death or the baron’s.”

“But I, for my part, have made no promise, M. Goefle. Chance has placed these papers in my hand: I have saved them from destruction; they are mine.”

“Indeed?” said M. Goefle smiling. “Well, now that I think about it, I had not finished my oath, after all, when we were interrupted—No, no, I swore solemnly yesterday, in regard to another deposit; but, as to this one, I remember now that I had not completed my oath. Besides, Stenson was about to confide in me fully. I had begun writing my questions, so as not to have to raise my voice to the poor deaf old man. I was speaking of you, of my suspicions, and I felt that therewere spies about us. You must have seen some of my writing in pencil, on the loose sheets?”

“Yes, I did, and thought that must have been the way of it. Read the letters, then.”

“Letters, are they letters? Give them to me—But no, we ought rather to hide them. We are surrounded, watched, Christian. At this very moment I am sure they are rummaging and robbing Stenson’s office. They have carried off Ulphilas. Who knows whether they will not attack us?”

“Attack us? But, in fact, it is quite possible! Puffo tried just now to take me by surprise, in the German fashion. He raised his hand upon me, and he had gold in his pockets. I was obliged to kick the clown out of doors.”

“And you were wrong. You should have tied him, and shut him up here. He is now perhaps with the baron’s cutthroats. Come, Christian, we must find a hiding-place for these papers before attending to anything else!”

“Pshaw! A hiding-place is never of any use.”

“Yes, indeed!”

“Very well then, you find one, Monsieur Goefle, while I make ready my weapons; that is the surest way. Where are these cutthroats?”

“Who knows? I saw Johan and his band go out with Stenson, and I locked the door of the court after them. But they may come from the other side, for the lake is a solid plain now; they may have come already. Do you hear anything?”

“Nothing. And why, in Heaven’s name, should they come and attack us here? Say, Monsieur Goefle, let us reason a little about our situation, and not be alarmed without any cause.”

“You cannot reason about it, Christian, for you have no knowledge to go upon! As for me, I know—or I think I know—that the baron has fully resolved to discover who you are, and, when he is satisfied, who can say what course he will pursue? Possibly they will keep us prisonershere, until he arrives at some decision. They have just arrested Stenson—yes, arrested, that is the word. At first, that scoundrel of a Johan came in and invited him politely enough; but when the terrified old man hesitated, and when I sought to detain him, the other servants showed themselves, and if he had resisted, would have carried him off by force. It was my intention to follow him. I am satisfied that they would not dare injure him before me, and I proposed to go with him into the baron’s presence, and, if necessary, to stir up the latter’s guests against him. In fact I actually did start in advance of them all, but, under cover of the fog, returned, for, on the other hand, to leave you alone—I could not make up my mind what to do! If the baron wants to extort some secret from Stenson, he will begin by wheedling him, and we shall have time enough to go to his rescue—that thought decided me. And now, Christian, let us go—Yet stay!—It is absolutely necessary that we should solve this mystery—that we should know the real facts of the case before acting! Stand sentinel, then, guard the door, they will not dare break it open—the devil! I am at home here; you are right. They will not venture to drag me, as they did that poor old overseer, before their master. What excuse could they offer?”

“None, most surely; so be tranquil, M. Goefle. This great door is solid, that of the bed-room is no less so, and I can answer for the door of the secret chamber; I will guard them. Read, and read quickly. We, at least, have always an excuse for going to the new chateau, since they have not countermanded the comedy of marionettes.”

“Yes, yes, certainly, we must know where we stand, andwho we are!” cried M. Goefle, exalted by the spirit of investigation, which is the soul, the inspiration of the lawyer’s profession. “I shall get through with it sooner than you would, Christian, for arranging these fragments, and making out these hieroglyphs, is in the regular course of my business. Five minutes’ patience, I ask no more thanthat. As for you, Master Nils, talk low with your marionettes.”

As he spoke, M. Goefle, with remarkable promptness, began arranging the letters according to their dates, reading them as he went on, and completing the sense, where it was wanting, with a veritable eagle’s glance. Every trace, every line of this mysterious package of papers he examined carefully, sometimes questioning Christian, and sometimes himself, as if to recall certain facts.

“‘The young man is very happy in his home with the Goffredis—he is much beloved.’ That refers to you, I should rather think. And yet, in certain places, he says: ‘My nephew,’ and it is still you he is speaking of. ‘My nephew has gone into the country, to Lake Perugia, with the Goffredis. The young man is fifteen years old to-day—He is tall and strong, and resembles his father—’ Oh, yes, certainly, Christian, you resemble him.”

“My father? Who, then, is my father?” cried Christian. “Do you know?”

“Stay,” said M. Goefle, “handing him a medallion, which he drew from his pocket, with much emotion. Look at that. Stenson just confided it to me. It is a portrait closely resembling the original—authentic!—Might it not have been taken for you?”

“Heavens!” said Christian, gazing at the beautiful miniature almost with a feeling of terror; “I don’t know, I am sure! It is a young man, richly dressed; is it not Baron Olaus in his youth?”

“No, no, God be praised, it is not he! But do not say a word, Christian, I must read on; I am beginning to understand! In another letter, you are designated as ‘your nephew,’ and no longer ‘my nephew’; and in still another, ‘your nephew.’ It is quite evident that it is a precaution to turn aside suspicions in case the letters are intercepted, for you are not related either to the man who wrote these letters, or to Stenson, to whom they are addressed.”

“Stenson! Is it to him, then, that some one has sent this accurate account of my health, my progress, and my travels? for I saw enough tounderstand that this had been done, in turning over the leaves. Here is a letter in which they speak of my duel; see, it is dated at Rome, one thousand seven hundred—”

“Wait!—oh, yes, I see it. There is a letter every year. ‘He has had the misfortune to kill Marco Melfi, who was’—then follow reflections. ‘The cardinal has no wish to be revenged. I hope to discover what has become of our poor child.’ Ah, here is a letter from Paris: ‘It is impossible to find him. I might deceive you, but I do not wish to. I am afraid that he may have been arrested in Italy. While I am looking for him here, he perhaps is a prisoner in the castle of Saint Angelo!’ Stay, Christian!—don’t be impatient. Here is a letter which must be more recent. It is dated the sixth of last August, Troppau, Moravia: ‘I was really upon the right track this time—He took the name of Dulac in Paris, as I supposed, but he started on a journey, and, most unhappily, has perished quite recently. I have just been dining at an inn with a young man named Guido Massarelli, whom I knew in Rome, and who was well acquainted with him, and he informed me that he had been assassinated in the forest of’—illegible! ‘I shall give up, therefore, any further search for him, and as my little commercial transactions require me to go to Italy, I shall start to-morrow before day-break. Do not send me any more money to help me on in my travels. You are not rich, for you have always been honest. That is the case, too, with your servant and friend, Ma—Mancini—Manucci.’”

“I know no such person!” said Christian.

“Manasses!” cried M. Goefle; “the person whom M. Guido mentioned yesterday, the little Jew who took such an inexplicable interest in you.”

“That was not his name,” rejoined Christian.

“No matter, it was the same person, I am sure of it,” said M. Goefle. “His name was Taddeo Manasses. Stenson told me so yesterday. This is the only time, in the course of the correspondence, that he signed either of his names in full, and it was perhaps the last time that thepoor wretch ever dipped his pen into ink; for, according to Massarelli, he is dead, and I will stake my life upon it that Massarelli assassinated him. Stay, don’t speak, Christian! On informing Stenson of his death, Massarelli claimed to be in possession of a terrible secret, which he wanted to sell him, and threatened, if he would not come to terms, to carry it to the baron—the proof, no doubt. Was this poor Jew addicted to drinking?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Well, then, Guido must have assassinated him, for the sake of the little money he had in his possession. He found, no doubt, some letter from Stenson on his person, and learning from that of his whereabouts, came here at once to turn the adventure to account—Besides, this Massarelli may have given the Jew some narcotic when they dined together at the inn. But no, since it was after that that the Jew wrote—but in the evening, or the next day.”

“Alas! what does it matter, Monsieur Goefle? It is quite plain that Massarelli discovered the secret, whatever it may be, and has revealed it to the baron; but, as for me, I have not discovered anything as yet about myself, except that M. Stenson is interested in me, and that Manasses, or Taddeo, was his confidant, and has faithfully transmitted to him news about me, and finally, that my existence is very disagreeable to Baron Olaus. Who am I then, in the name of Heaven? Do not make me languish any longer, Monsieur Goefle.”

“Ah, patience, patience, my friend!” replied the lawyer, as he sought a hiding-place for his precious letters; “I cannot tell you yet. I have been certain of the truth for the last twenty-four hours, as far as instinct and reason can make me so; but I must have proofs, and these are not enough. I must get hold of them—where? how? Let me reflect—if I can! for there is enough here to drive one crazy. Papers to hide—Stenson in danger—and we too, perhaps! However—oh, yes! this is the point, Christian: I want to be certain that it is you they have designs against, for then I shall know positively who you are.”

“It is easy to find out whether the baron’s intentions are what you suppose. I will go over to the chateau to give my performance as if nothing were the matter, and if I am attacked, as I am so well armed to-day, I will try and make my adversaries confess.”

“I really believe,” said M. Goefle, who had finally succeeded in hiding the letters, “that it would be preferable to run the risk of a fight on the open lake than to wait here until they run us down in this gloomy old den. It is already nine o’clock, and we were to have been at the chateau at eight. Yet they have not sent to know why we are so late. That is singular! Stay, Christian! Is your gun loaded? Take it; for my part, I will take my sword. I am neither a Hercules nor a bully; but I understood fencing in my youth, like all students, and if we are waylaid and attacked by ruffians, I don’t intend to let them slaughter me like a calf. Promise me, swear to me, to be prudent. That is all I ask.”

“I give you my word that I will,” replied Christian. “Come!”

“But that troublesome brat, who has fallen asleep playing, what shall we do with him?”

“Put him to bed, Monsieur Goefle; I don’t suppose they have any designs on him.”

“But those cutthroats will kill a child to stop it from crying, and that young one will yell with all his might; I can answer for that, if he wakes up and sees strange people about him.”

“Well, the devil take him! I suppose we shall have to carry him with us. Nothing would be easier, if we don’t meet badly disposed people; but, if there is any fighting to be done, he will be very much in our way, and may be injured himself.”

“You are right, Christian; it would be more sensible to leave him in his bed. If there are spies around, they will soon know that we have gone out, and they will have no reason for coming in here. Keep your eye on the door. This time I shall not be very long in putting Master Nils to bed; he can sleep in his clothes.”

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