Chapter XII: Front Matter (12)

“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 your fingers; 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 words every 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 to work, 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 the _dramatis 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. I could 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 your imagination 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 the _Gray 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 all sorts 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 long discussion 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 along by 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 that _I_ was 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?”

“Come, come, M. Naturalist,” said Christian, with perfect coolness, although feeling very much annoyed at this interview, which was delaying him so unexpectedly; “don’t you see that the poor creature is loaded up to his eyes already?”

“What of that? Unload him, I say! you can come back for your load.”

“Impossible. I can’t spare the time.”

“What! you disobey me? What sort of savage are you? You are the first Swedish peasant who ever refused to assist Dr. Stangstadius. I will inform against you, miserable rascal, I give you my word. I’ll complain of you!”

“To whom? The Baron de Waldemora?”

“No, for he would have you hung; and good enough for you, too. But I am kind-hearted; I want you to understand that. I am the best man alive, and I forgive you.”

“Nonsense!” said Christian, who could not help at times diverting himself a little with the strange persons whom he encountered in his wandering life. “I don’t know you, and I strongly suspect that you are not the person you claim to be. You a naturalist! Out upon you! You can’t even tell a horse from an ass.”

“An ass?” said Stangstadius, diverted at once, fortunately, from his whim of equitation; “do you pretend to have an ass there?”

He inspected Jean with his lantern; but thanks to Christian’s solicitude, the animal was so well wrapped up in skins of various kinds, that it presented a most fantastic appearance.

“An ass? It can’t be! An ass could not live in this latitude. What you, in your brutal ignorance, call an ass, is nothing more than some kind of mule at the most! Come, let me see it;--take off those borrowed skins--”

“Hold, monsieur!” said Christian; “whether Stangstadius or not, you have tired me out. I can’t talk with you any longer. Good-evening.”

With that, he tickled the legs of the faithful Jean with a switch; the animal broke into a trot, and the two quickly left the philosopher behind them. But soon, Christian, who was always good-natured, felt a sort of remorse for his rudeness. As he reached the edge of the lake, he looked back, and saw the poor doctor of sciences following on with much difficulty, and many slips and tumbles. He must really have been very much fatigued to have been at all conscious of it, for his identity was concentrated in his brains and in his tongue; and still more to have confessed it: for he claimed to be the most robust man of the age.

“If his strength should fail him,” thought Christian, “he might lie down there on the ice, and, in this region, a moment’s sleep out of doors on such a night as this would, perhaps, be fatal--particularly to a feeble being like that. Come, stand still, Jean! wait for me.”

He hastened towards M. Stangstadius, who had, in fact, come to a halt, and was perhaps revising his determination of going to dine at Stollborg. At this idea, Christian redoubled his speed; but Stangstadius, who was not always so brave as he pretended, and who had conceived strong prejudices against a person so little inclined to bow down before his greatness as his late companion, instantly suspected him of the worst designs against his own person; and, recovering his strength, he set off towards Stollborg as hard as he could go. But this did not suit Christian at all, and he began to run also, and quickly came up with him.

“Wretch!” cried the learned man in a broken voice, for his terror and exhaustion had reached a climax, “you mean to kill me, I know! Yes, my enemies have hired you to extinguish the very light of the world! Let me alone, you miserable scoundrel! don’t touch me! Think who it is that you are about to lay hands on!”

“Come, come! compose yourself, M. Stangstadius,” said Christian, laughing at his terror; “and have a better appreciation of people who want to do you a service! Come, get on my back, and be quick about it; I am all in a perspiration with running after you, and I don’t want to stay here and take cold.”

Stangstadius complied, though with a good deal of reluctance, but he was relieved when he saw how easily the powerful young man lifted him, and carried him ashore. There, Christian placed him on his feet, and hastened forward, to escape his generosity; for, in his gratitude, the worthy Stangstadius was rummaging his pockets for a two-sou piece, convinced that this would be a royal gift for one who had had the happiness of rendering him a service.

IX.

CHRISTIAN left the professor to proceed towards the main entrance of the chateau, while he himself sought the side door, which in all feudal manors leads to the courts and outer buildings. Drawing down his mask, he called a servant, who helped him unload; and then, after seeing that his ass was suitably accommodated, he ascended a private staircase leading to the apartment of M. Johan, the major-domo of the new chateau. The latter did not wait for him to announce himself.

“Ah! Ah! The man in a black mask,” he exclaimed, in a benevolent and patronizing tone. “So, you are the famous Christian Waldo! Come along, my good fellow, I’ll take you to your quarters myself, and you can make all your preparations at your leisure; you have a full hour yet.”

Assistance was now given to transfer Christian’s baggage to the room which was to serve him as a green-room, and at his request the keys were put into his hands. Then he shut himself up alone, and having removed his mask to be more at his ease, set to work to mount his theatre, though not without some rubbing of his shoulders. M. Stangstadius was not very heavy, but his deformed body was so singularly angular, that he felt as if he had been carrying a great bundle of crooked sticks.

He had been shown into a small saloon, in which there were two doors, one opening upon a passage leading to the private staircase by which Christian had just entered, escorted by the affable major-domo, and the other upon the end of a large and richly-decorated gallery, called the Hunting-gallery, where Christian had met Margaret the night before. The theatre was to stand just within the gallery before this door (it was a large folding-door), and the spectators were to be accommodated within the gallery itself. Christian, upon measuring the width of the door-way, found that the theatre would just extend across it; so that when the whole was in order, he would be perfectly isolated from his audience, and quite at home in his little saloon. This arrangement, therefore, was an excellent one for securing his own freedom of movement, and his incognito, as well as that of M. Goefle.

From the number of arm-chairs and other seats disposed in front of the theatre, Christian judged by a short estimate, without counting in detail, that his audience would consist of about a hundred persons conveniently seated, ladies probably--and of a hundred gentlemen, more or less of whom would have to stand behind them. The gallery was wide, and of unusual depth, so that it was, on the whole, the most convenient place in which Christian had ever exhibited. The vaulted and frescoed ceiling made its acoustic properties perfect; the chandeliers, which were already burning, gave an excellent light, and by merely lighting up the wings of the portable theatre, the dimensions of its little stage assumed exactly the appearance of depth which it required.

Christian made all his preparations with the most critical care. He was really fond of his little theatre, and had adapted to it a number of ingenious contrivances which made it something like a miniature of a real theatre. He would, in fact, have been successful as a painter of interiors and of landscape, if the love of the natural sciences had not occasioned him to confine himself mostly to mere decorative work; but his natural gifts were so good, that he could scarcely execute even work intrinsically frivolous, without giving it the distinct impress of his own graceful and tasteful originality. His little scenes were accordingly fresh and charming in design, and always produced an agreeable effect. He took the greatest pains with them, especially when he was going to exhibit before an intelligent audience; and if he occasionally felt impatient at having to spend so much time over such details, he consoled himself by recalling the favorite axiom of Goffredi: “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing as well as possible, even if it is only whittling toothpicks.”

Christian, therefore, was completely absorbed in making his preparations. Having cast a precautionary glance around the deserted gallery, he set up the frame of his theatre experimentally in the door-way with all the scenery and lights, and, stepping out into the audience-room, he seated himself in the best place to judge of the effect of his perspective, so that he might adjust properly the entrances and movements of his actors.

The two or three minutes’ rest thus obtained was very welcome to him. He was more or less hardened to the extremes of all climates, but he found that in the over-heated rooms of the houses of the north, he quickly felt fatigued. He had slept the night before only a few hours, in his arm-chair; and either from the exhausting experiences of the day, or from his walk on the ice with a professor of geology on his shoulders, he was overtaken by a sudden and irresistible drowsiness, and sank into one of those brief naps, in which the transition from the world of reality to dream-land is so sudden as to be imperceptible. He seemed to be in a garden, on a warm summer’s day, and to hear the sand in one of the paths near him crackling under a stealthy tread. Some one was cautiously approaching; and although he could not see the person, he felt an intuitive certainty that it was Margaret. He awoke without being startled, on feeling what seemed to be a breath stirring in his hair. Quickly recovering himself, he jumped up and found that his mask had fallen off and lay at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, without turning round to see who had wakened him, and was startled in good earnest, when a man’s voice, only too well known to him, remarked:

“It is perfectly useless to hide your face, Christian Waldo; I have recognized you. You are Christian Goffredi.”

Christian, astonished, turned, and saw standing before him, in good condition, well-dressed, and fresh shaved, no other than Guido Massarelli.

“What! Is this you?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here, when you ought to be dangling at the end of a rope, at the meeting of four cross-roads, in some wood.”

“I am one of the household,” said Guido, smiling calmly and disdainfully.

“You one of the baron’s household? Ah, to be sure! It does not surprise me. After being a swindler, and a highway robber, what remained except for you to become a lackey?”

“I am not a lackey,” replied Massarelli, with the same composure; “I am a friend of the family. Quite an intimate friend, Christian, and you would do well, moreover, to try and be on good terms with me. It would be the greatest piece of good fortune that could befall you.”

“Master Guido,” said Christian, as he moved his theatre back into the inner saloon, “it is unnecessary to have an explanation now; but I am glad to know that you are staying here, where I shall be able to find you.”

“Is that a threat, Christian?”

“No, it is a promise. I am in your debt, as you know very well, my dear friend, and as soon as I have paid off my indebtedness here--that will be done as soon as I have given an exhibition of marionettes an hour from this time--I shall make it my business to settle my account with you, by giving you the very best flogging you ever had in your life.”

While speaking, Christian passed back into the green-room, and began putting out his lights and dropping his curtain. Massarelli followed, closing the doors of the gallery as he did so; and Christian, whose back was necessarily turned towards him at that moment, said to himself that this bandit would be very likely to make use of his advantage to try and assassinate him. Still, he despised him too much to show any distrust, and he went on threatening him with a severe chastisement for his crimes, in a tone as calm as that assumed by the rascal himself. Fortunately for the imprudent Christian, Guido was by no means a courageous man, and kept his distance, ready to retreat in case his adversary should seem disposed to make a present payment on account.

“Come, Christian,” he began again, when he supposed the young man might have given vent to his first outbreak of resentment, “let us have a reasonable conversation before proceeding to extremities. I am perfectly ready to give you satisfaction for all my transactions with you, and you have no right to insult with idle words a man whom you know you cannot terrify.”

“What a pitiful fellow you are!” said Christian, beginning to be angry, and walking straight up to him. “Satisfaction from you, you prince of cowards? Oh no, Guido! the way to do with a fellow like you is to slap him in the face, and, if he resists, to beat him like a dog: nobody ever fights with him; you must know that. So drop your high tone, you scoundrel, and don’t dare look me in the face! Down with you, on your knees, before me, or I’ll strike you this very moment!”

Guido, as pale as death, fell on his knees without a word, while great tears, either of fear, or shame, or rage, rolled down his cheeks.

“Very good,” said Christian, half in disgust and half in pity; “now get up and go. I pardon you, but never voluntarily cross my path again; and if we chance to meet, no matter where, don’t venture to speak to me. For me, you are dead. Out with you, lackey! This room is mine for two or three hours.”

“Christian,” cried Guido, rising, and speaking with a vehemence affected or sincere, as the case may be, “hear me for only five minutes.”

“No.”

“Christian, listen to me!” persisted the bandit, stepping before the door of the staircase, which Christian was about to throw open; “I have something of importance to tell you--something upon which your fortune and your life depend.”

“My fortune,” said Christian, laughing contemptuously, “went into your pocket, you thief! It was so little that I don’t care much about it, either way. And as to my life, try and take it, if you think best.”

“It has been in my hands, Christian,” said Guido, who, as soon as he was assured of his enemy’s generosity, had recovered all his assurance; “possibly it may be so again. You had outraged me, and I was strongly tempted by opportunity to revenge myself; but I could not forget that I had once loved you; and even now, in spite of your additional insults, it only depends upon you to have me love you as much as ever.”

“Many thanks,” replied Christian, shrugging his shoulders; “come, away with you! I have no time to listen to your pathetic drivelling; I have known it by heart this long time.”

“I’m not so guilty as you think, Christian. When I robbed you in the Carpathians it was out of my power to do otherwise.”

“That is just what everybody says who has surrendered himself to the devil.”

“I had surrendered myself to the devil, it is very true, for I was the chief of a band of robbers. My comrades had marked you out for a victim; their eyes were upon us, and, if I had not taken good care to drug you, so as to prevent a useless resistance, they would have killed you.”

“Then I am under obligations to you. Is that what you are driving at?”

“That is it, exactly. I am now in a fair way to make my fortune. Even to-morrow I shall be in a position to restore all that I took from you--forced to do so by men whom I could not control as I wished. A few days later they robbed me myself, and left me in exactly the same case in which you were left.”

“They did quite right. You richly deserved it.”

“Christian, do you remember the amount that was taken from you?”

“Perfectly.”

“And shall you be at Stollborg to-morrow?”

“I don’t know. It does not concern you, either.”

“As you please. But to-morrow I shall bring you the money.”

“Spare yourself the trouble. I am at home at Stollborg, and _I do not receive_.”

“But yet--”

“Silence! I have heard you long enough.”

“But if I bring you the money--”

“The same sum that you took from me? No, I presume not! You drank that out a long time ago. Well, then, as the money you speak of can’t be the same, and as it must be the proceeds of some theft, or of something worse, if possible, I don’t want it. Please to take that for granted, and don’t trouble yourself with any more talk about restitution. I am not fool enough to believe you, and if I did, I should promise you just as faithfully as I now do, to throw the price of your vile exploits into your face.”

Christian was on the point of thrusting Guido out, but the latter yielded at last, and went. The exhibitor was about to close the door again, when M. Goefle, all covered up in furs, appeared, ascending the stairs, manuscript in hand. The lawyer had either eaten very quickly, or not at all; he had devoured the play, which he rapidly mastered, and, fearing that he would not have time enough to rehearse, had hurried over from Stollborg on foot, by the light of the stars. He had concealed his face and disguised his voice, in order to inquire for Christian Waldo’s room; and, in short, had used all the precautions of a young lover stealing to a mysterious rendezvous. His head, for the present, was full of nothing but the burattini; he had forgotten the mysteries of Stollborg as completely as if he had never troubled himself on the subject. However, as he was running lightly up the stairs, he found himself, for the second time that day, obliged to pass a man of evil countenance, who was rapidly descending. This second meeting brought back to his mind the strange fancies in which he had been indulging about Baron Olaus, Stenson, and the deceased Hilda.

“Stay,” he said to Christian, who gayly congratulated him on his zeal; “look at that man who just passed me, and who is now going along the corridor below. Did he come from this room? Is he a servant of the baron’s? Do you know him?”

“I know him a great deal too well, and I was just under the necessity of telling him my opinion of him,” said Christian. “That man--whether a servant or not--is the very Guido Massarelli whose adventures I told you something about this morning, in relating my story.”

“You don’t say so! Well, that is a strange encounter, on my word!” cried M. Goefle; “and it may, perhaps, give you some trouble. You are enemies, and, if you have treated him as he deserves, he will injure you as much as possible.”

“How can he injure me? He is such a coward! I made him go down on his knees to me.”

“In that case--well, I don’t know what he will do, but it is a fact that he has discovered some important secret.”

“A secret concerning me?”

“No,” said M. Goefle, who was on the point of speaking freely, when he remembered his resolution not to reveal anything relating to Stenson; “but, at any rate, you are hiding Christian Goffredi under the mask of Christian Waldo, and he will betray you.”

“What if he does? I have not dishonored the name of Goffredi, and I hope the time will come when my singular adventures will redound to my honor, rather than to my discredit. Pray what have I to fear from any one’s opinion? Am I either idle or debauched? I despise all the Massarellis in the world! Have I not already made even a chivalric reputation in Sweden and elsewhere, under my buffoon’s mask? More good actions are attributed to me, indeed, than I have performed, and I have become a sort of hero of romance. Was I not last night the Prince Royal of Sweden? And if this reputation of mine should become too fantastic, cannot I change my name whenever I shall think proper, and adopt a serious profession? It is important upon your account (and that is the only reason I give it a thought, M. Goefle) to prevent your pretended nephew, who attended the ball last night, from being recognized under the mask of Christian Waldo; but this is the only thing we need trouble ourselves about. Now Massarelli was not here last night, I am sure of it, and he knows nothing about that adventure; otherwise I should have heard of it. However, in any event, you will only need to repeat what is the truth, and adhere to it, that you have never had either nephew or natural child, and that you are in no way responsible for the practical jokes of a professional jester like Christian Waldo.”

“After all, I am as indifferent upon the subject as yourself,” replied M. Goefle, taking off his wig, and covering his head with a light black cap which Christian gave him; “do you suppose I am such a coward as to be afraid of the ogre of this castle? Christian, I am about to make my first appearance as an exhibitor of marionettes. Well, if you should ever be reproached with having earned your living as a showman, so as to devote yourself to science, you can reply that you knew a man holding an honorable position in a dignified profession, who became your fellow-performer for his own amusement.”

“Or rather out of kindness to me, Monsieur Goefle.”