Chapter XI: Front Matter (11)

“This murder made a great excitement, and astounded the whole country. In many districts the Dalecarlians are fierce and passionate, and among these mountains the Norwegian duel, with knives, is still in vogue, but such a thing as a cowardly and secret assassination is almost unexampled. The people in the vicinity did not venture to accuse any one, and indeed they had no grounds for doing so. Certain foreign miners disappeared suddenly from Falun, but they could not be traced. Baron Adelstan had not been robbed, and there was but one person in the world for whose interest it was to get rid of him. Some whispered cautiously the name of Baron Olaus; but the majority rejected such a suspicion with horror, and my father first of all.

“Baron Olaus appeared overwhelmed with despair at his brother’s death. He hastened into the country, weeping and lamenting rather too ostentatiously, perhaps, and testifying the most disinterested devotion to his sister-in-law. Every one was very much edified by his conduct, except the baroness herself, who received him with extreme coldness, and, after several hours, requested him to leave her alone with her grief; for which she could not be consoled. The baron accordingly left, to the great regret of the retainers of the family, whom he had quite overpowered with gifts and kindness. On the very evening of his departure, little Harold, the son of the baroness, was taken with convulsions, and died before morning.

“Driven quite to despair by this final blow, the unhappy mother lost all prudence, and loudly accused Olaus of having first caused the assassination of her husband, and then of poisoning her child, so as to get possession of their fortune. But her cries were unanswered--they did not even reach the outer world. There was no skilful physician within reach, to verify the nature of the child’s death, and none of her domestics chose to run the risk of seeking for proofs against Baron Olaus. Pastor Mickelson, who practised as a physician in his parish, declared that Harold had died as children often do, from the effects of teething, and that the poor baroness was unjust and insane; which, unfortunately, was very possible.

“Baron Olaus had not gone far when word reached him of his nephew’s death; upon which he at once returned, apparently as full of grief as the baroness herself. She, however, overwhelmed him with maledictions, to which he only replied by sad and heart-rending smiles. Every one lamented her misfortunes; as a widow, a mother, even as an insane person, she was a worthy object of compassion; but no one thought of accusing the generous, the patient, the sensible Olaus. Perhaps he was thought even more to be pitied than she, as being doomed to endure suspicions so outrageous. He was admired, moreover, for not allowing himself to be irritated; his very complaints were uttered in a tone full of tenderness, and he begged Hilda to continue to reside at the chateau, and to live with him as a sister with a brother. For my part, I am quite convinced that the baron is a great knave, and that he did not regret his nephew’s death, and yet I am far from considering him an actual monster; he has never seemed to me to be a man of sufficient boldness to commit great crimes. The baroness had suffered too much, and was in a state of too much mental excitement to be able to judge coolly. She charged him with having killed father, brother, and nephew; and all at once she formed a singular resolution, which I think was an act of vengeance and despair, and altogether an ill-judged measure.

“She called together the magistrates and civic authorities of the province, and declared to them, in presence of all her own household, that she was pregnant, and that she intended to maintain all the hereditary rights of the child whose natural guardian she was. She made this declaration with great energy, and announced that she should proceed to Stockholm, in order to have her condition fully authenticated, and to ascertain her legal rights until the birth of her child.

“Baron Olaus listened to this declaration with great calmness, and replied, in substance, thus:

“‘It is perfectly unnecessary to expose yourself to the fatigues and risks of this journey. The hope that my dear brother’s lineage will be revived fills me with satisfaction, nor will I consent to a renewal of any controversies. It is evident that my presence annoys and irritates you, and never shall it be said that the disturbed state of your mind was aggravated by any voluntary act of mine. I will myself withdraw, therefore, and will not return here until after the birth of your child--always, supposing that you are not deceived as to your condition.’

“Olaus did, in fact, depart, saying to everybody that he did not believe a word of this story of pregnancy, but that he was in no haste to enter into his inheritance.

“‘For the sake of propriety, and in consideration of my sister-in-law’s unhappy state of excitement,’ he added, ‘I prefer to wait, and can very well afford to do so for a year, if necessary, so that the truth may be established.’

“These were the views he expressed to my father at Stockholm, whither he now immediately returned, and my father, I remember, blamed him for being too confiding, and over-delicate. He thought Baroness Hilda had invented this posthumous child, and intimated that it would not be the first time that a widow had brought forward a supposititious heir so as to despoil the rightful inheritor. The baron, however, replied with infinite mildness:

“‘What would you have me do? I am tired of the hateful suspicions which this exasperated woman is trying to fasten upon me, and can best refute them by proving the disinterestedness of my own conduct. And furthermore, to provide against being pursued by her hatred even here, I think it will be best for me to travel until my affairs can be settled.’

“Shortly after this Baron Olaus went to Russia, where he was received by the czarina with much attention, and where he began to construct that web of intrigues whose result has been to make him one of the most tenacious and dangerous of the cap-party of the Diet. It has been asserted that his character developed very rapidly during his stay at the Russian court, and that, at his return, he had acquired such views, manners, and principles, as caused him, from that time, to appear totally changed. He was still always tranquil and smiling, but there was something terrible in his tranquillity, something sinister in his smile. He was still friendly and caressing in his manner to inferiors, but his friendliness was contemptuous, and his caresses the soft touch of the covered claw. In short, he was precisely what he is to-day--except so far as advancing years and ill-health have intensified his more gloomy traits--a problematic being, who is either the most consummate of villains or the victim of a most strange combination of terrible circumstances. He now entered upon a career of intrigue and crime, which the czarina has shown great skill in turning to her own advantage, and of which the virtuous baron himself was very soon heard to speak with complaisant admiration; and it was at this time that, he began to be called ‘The Snow Man,’ either to signify that his heart had been frozen during his residence in Russia, or that his reputation had, as it were, thawed in the clearer and warmer sunshine of his own country. The surname was made the more appropriate by his physical characteristics, for, in the course of time, a livid paleness became the habitual color of his face, his hair turned prematurely gray, his carriage was stiff, and his bloated hands were invariably as cold as death.

“But I must not anticipate. This change in the baron, which was, perhaps, only the effect of an exhausting struggle against unjust suspicions, did not become thus striking until after the death or disappearance of all the persons whose existence might have been disadvantageous to him. While still in Russia he caused it to be reported in Sweden that he was mortally ill, and it was believed by many that this was one of the first proofs of his accomplishments as an intriguer. This report was said to be totally unfounded; and when it was afterwards asked what reason he could have had for the strange whim of declaring that he was dying at St. Petersburg, his enemies alleged that it was to relieve Baroness Hilda from her fear of him, and thus prevent her from coming to have her child born at Stockholm. Unfortunately--I am stating the views of the enemies of Olaus--the baroness fell into this snare. She remained at Waldemora during the summer, and, when her pregnancy was so far advanced that it was impossible for her to travel (she had become quite feeble in consequence of her many afflictions), Baron Olaus suddenly reappeared, as well and active as ever, in the neighborhood of the chateau.

“There, Christian, that is all I can tell you of the story as it is generally current. The sequel is a secret history. What the facts are, can only be conjectured or imagined, until the proofs shall be discovered, if any such exist, and shall ever come to light.

“The baroness was so frightened at learning that the baron was staying at Pastor Mickelson’s, that she resolved to shut herself up in the old chateau, which was so very limited in extent--for the new _gaard_ had not then been built--that it could easily be defended by a small number of faithful servants. At the head of these were Adam Stenson, already grown old in the service at the chateau, and a confidential female attendant, whose name I have forgotten.

“Now, what took place after that? It has been said that the baron succeeded in corrupting all the guardians of Stollborg, even the confidential waiting-woman and the incorruptible Stenson. But I would risk my right hand on the faith of Stenson; and, indeed, the continued good understanding between this excellent man and the baron, is to me almost conclusive proof of the innocence of the latter. There are two versions of the conclusion of this tragedy: one is that the baron imprisoned his sister-in-law so closely, and made her so unhappy in Stollborg, that she actually died of sorrow and chagrin; the other is, that she was already insane when she took up her abode there, that she soon became liable to dreadful fits of mania, and died amidst transports of impious fury, cursing the evangelical religion, and proclaiming the kingdom of Satan.

“Amid all these varying rumors there is, however, one fact certain, and that is that her pregnancy was a simulated one. Ten months after her husband’s death, in the last days of the year 1746, the baroness died at Stollborg, where she had been living for three months in a state of bodily languor and mental disorder. On her death-bed, she formally acknowledged to Pastor Mickelson and the baron, that she had not been pregnant, but had intended to bring forward a counterfeit child, who was to have been a boy, in order to retain the control of her husband’s property, and to gratify her hatred of Baron Olaus. There is still a third version, which I really only mention with reluctance. It is that the baroness actually died of starvation in this donjon, but this Stenson has always emphatically denied. Whatever the facts are, the last moments of Hilda are enveloped in mystery. None of her own relatives were living, and her husband’s family, frightened at the reports that prevailed about her religious opinions, shut their eyes to the whole business, and did not move in her behalf. They had, in fact, always liked the compliant Olaus, who flattered their prejudices, better than the high-spirited Adelstan, who was constantly offending them. It is said that this story came to the ears of the king, and that he had meant to investigate it, but that the senate, in which Olaus had powerful friends, requested his majesty to attend to his own business--that is, to attend to nothing at all.

“My father was in very ill-health when Baron Olaus came to tell him his own version of his sister-in-law’s death. For the first time my father manifested some surprise, and even a disposition to blame the baron. He told him he had done wrong to expose himself to such grave suspicions, and that if proceedings should be commenced against him his defence would be difficult. The baron, on this, showed him the declaration of Pastor Mickelson, in his double capacity of clergyman and physician, in which he testified to the feigned pregnancy of the baroness, and to her death, in consequence of an illness of which he had made a careful diagnosis, and had treated in a skilful and judicious manner, as all the physicians who had since been consulted on the subject had agreed. Moreover, he produced the declaration of the baroness, signed by her own hand, affirming that she had made a false representation of her condition. This paper my father examined rigorously, and even caused it to be scrutinized by experts in handwriting, but he found it impregnable. Still, I remember that he blamed the baron for not having called in ten physicians, instead of one only, for authenticating the facts for his own defence in so weighty a matter. But he never suspected him of any crime or imposture, and in this belief he died, a short time afterwards.

“After a time, murmurs were heard against the baron, whose conduct began to make him hated, but he very soon made himself feared also; there was no one whose direct interest it was to avenge his supposed victims, and no one came forward generous and bold enough to defy him. I myself would have done this, although then young at the bar, as I should be ready to do this moment if my suspicions were sufficiently aroused. But I was naturally influenced by my father’s opinion, and he had never gone further than to find fault with Olaus for not being prudent enough in his own behalf. Besides, my father’s death took place just about that time, and you can readily imagine that my sorrow, which was very keen, diverted my mind from other objects.

“I inherited the management of the baron’s law business, and, as I have said, notwithstanding the increasing dislike with which his political conduct and his personal manners have inspired me, I have never from that day to this been able to find the least proof of the crimes with which he is charged, or even to get hold of any probable or reliable evidence on the subject. Among his tenantry and retainers there has been a reaction in opinion about him, as might well have been expected; for as soon as he no longer needed their sympathy, he took no further pains to make himself popular. His domestics are all strangers, persons whom he substituted for the old servants immediately upon taking possession of the estate, and he pays them in a manner to secure from them blind obedience and absolute discretion. Stenson is the only one of the old household whom he has retained; he employed him for a long time as steward, but at last allowed him to retire, on account of his great age. He provides him with a suitable retreat, an honorable pension, and has always treated him with great respect, and even with marked friendliness. This has been supposed to indicate that Stenson was his accomplice; but, Christian, it is this very fact that satisfies me as to the truth of the matter, and which makes my own conscience easy; for Stenson is actually a holy man, a model of all the Christian virtues.”

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 are none 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, to make 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 this room 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 the _Gray 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 the _Gray Lady’s_ picture?”

“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; I have 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 little rascal 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 a fragment 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 people whom 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?”

“And _the 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 a friend. 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 before _him_, 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 draw him 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 the _burattino_ is 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.”