Chapter XV: Front Matter (15)

An immense burst of laughter greeted the wrath of Stangstadius, and the whole assembly shouted with applause the name of Christian Waldo; but the scene quickly changed. Stangstadius, irritated by the impertinent laughter of the young people, darted towards the ravisher of his wig, who was standing erect upon his sleigh, piteously exhibiting the cause of his defeat, which looked not unlike a great fish at the end of a line. M. Goefle, in an assumed voice, began to accuse Stangstadius, in a comic manner, of having played off this trick on him, so as to prevent him from whipping his horse and winning the race; but the man of science, who was as nimble as a monkey, in spite of his unequal legs and crooked arms, scrambled up behind him, snatched off his hat and his mask, and only paused in his projects of vengeance, on recognizing with surprise his friend Goefle, who was instantly saluted with unanimous applause.

Though M. Goefle was not known to all who were present, his name was repeated by a number of persons, and he was heartily greeted. The Swedes are very proud of their eminent men, especially in any pursuit that brings their native language into notice. Besides, the honorable character of the doctor of laws, and his reputation as a man of talent, secured him the respect and affection of all young people. They insisted on proclaiming him the victor in the race, and it was all he could do to prevent the good-natured major from transferring the prize to him. This was a drinking-horn, curiously carved and ornamented with Runic characters, in silver; a fac-simile of a precious relic of antiquity belonging to the baron’s collection, and discovered in the course of excavations made in the hogar some years before.

“No, my dear major,” said M. Goefle, putting his now useless mask into his pocket, while Stangstadius replaced his wig upon his head, “I only ran for honor; and since my honor, or rather that of my horse, has not been tarnished by the few seconds’ delay caused by that unlucky wig, I have nothing more to wish for. I am proud of Loki, and satisfied with myself. I should be still better contented,” he added, as he stepped out of the sleigh, “if I knew what had become of the poor fellow’s head-cover; he will catch cold.”

“Here it is,” said Christian in a low voice, approaching M. Goefle; “but since you have been recognized, I must take myself off at once, my dear uncle. It was well enough for Christian Waldo to have a masked servant, but in your case, it would be quite out of character.”

“No, no, Christian, I will not part with you!” said M. Goefle. “We will take a look at the lake from the top of the hogar, and then go back to Stollborg. Stay, we’ll give my horse to one of those peasants to hold, and then make the ascent. Take this side-path, and keep out of the way of the curious. A black mask, just now, is noticed by everybody; and I see, unless we make our escape, that we shall soon be surrounded and cross-questioned.”

XI.

WHILE Christian and M. Goefle adroitly escaped behind the mound, the main body of the company returned to the new chateau; the hogar was so steep, and the cold so great, that they would not venture to ascend it. And yet, in an excavation half way up, a sort of tent had been prepared, in which the revellers were expected to take punch; but the ladies had declined, and most of the gentlemen followed them. In about half an hour, when Christian and the lawyer were coming down from the platform, where the statue, too much heated by the flames of the resinous torches, was beginning to melt, they had the curiosity to look into this grotto, which had been hung and closed in with tarred cloths. They found nobody there but Larrson and his lieutenant. All the other young men, slaves either to their lady-loves, who had returned to the chateau, or to their horses, who were in danger of taking cold, had gone, or were about going. Osmund Larrson was an amiable young man, who tried with all his might to be a Frenchman in wit and manners, but who, fortunately for himself, was at heart devotedly patriotic. Lieutenant Erwin Osburn was one of those good-natured, blunt, decided characters, who are unable even to make an effort to produce any modification in themselves. He had all the qualities of an excellent officer and citizen, with the good-nature of a man who is in perfect health, and who does not trouble himself about what does not concern him. Larrson was his friend, his leader, his idol. He followed him like his shadow, and never so much as stirred a finger without his advice. He had even consulted him in the selection of a sweetheart.

As soon as the two friends saw M. Goefle, they hastened to lay hold of him, swearing that he should not leave the hogar until he had done them the honor to drink with them. The punch was ready, and only needed to be set on fire.

“I want to be able to say,” cried Larrson, “that I drank in the hogar of the lake on the nights of December 26th and 27th, with two men so celebrated in different professions as M. Edmund Goefle and Christian Waldo.”

“Christian Waldo!” said M. Goefle, “where are you going to find him?”

“There! behind you. He’s disguised like a poor devil, and masked; but it’s he, all the same. He has lost one of his great ugly gloves, and I recognize his white hand. I saw it at Stockholm, and observed it so attentively that I should know it again amongst a thousand! See now, M. Christian Waldo, you have a very handsome hand, but it has one peculiarity; the little finger of your left hand is slightly curved under, and you cannot quite straighten it, even when you hold your hand wide open. Do you not remember at Stockholm an officer who saw you rescue a little cabin-boy from three furious drunken sailors? It was down at the park; you had come out of your exhibition, and were still masked. Your servant had run away. The child would have been killed but for you. Do you remember it?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Christian; “you were the officer who passed. You drew your sword, and put the drunken rascals to flight, and then insisted upon taking me with you in your carriage. If it had not been for you I might have been killed.”

“Then there would have been one noble-hearted man the less,” said Larrson. “Won’t you give me one more shake of the hand, as you did then?”

“With all my heart!” said Christian, grasping the major’s hand.

Then, removing his mask, he said to M. Goefle:

“It is not my custom to hide my face from persons who inspire me with confidence and affection.”

“What!” exclaimed the major and his lieutenant, “Christian Goefle, our friend of last night?”

“No; Christian Waldo, who had stolen the name of M. Goefle, and whom M. Goefle has been good enough to pardon for a great impertinence. I recognized you at once last evening, major.”

“Ah, very good! You attended the ball in spite of the prejudices of the baron, who, perhaps, had not had the good taste to invite you?”

“But it is nowhere customary to receive as a guest a person who is paid by the master of the house to entertain his guests. I should really have had no reason to complain if I had been put out of doors, and it was folly in me to expose myself to such a danger. Still, I had an excuse; my object in travelling is to observe the countries through which I pass, so as to remember and describe them. I am a sort of note-taking scribbler and observer; by which I do not mean, however, a diplomatic spy. I study the fine arts and sciences even more than manners and customs, but I am interested in all sorts of things; and as I have seen something of society elsewhere, I took a fancy to behold it once more in all its luxury--a strange anomaly--in the midst of the mountains and lakes and ice of a country that is apparently inaccessible. But my face seems greatly to have displeased the baron, and accordingly I wore my mask at his house to-day. You advised me last evening not to return thither at all.”

“And we should so advise you still, dear Christian,” said the major, “if the baron had remembered the incident of last night, but his illness appears to have made him forget it. However, look out for his servants. Cover your face again, and talk French, for here are some of them now, bringing us the punch; they may have seen you at the ball.”

A vast silver bowl, full of flaming punch, was now placed upon the table of rough granite, and the major did the honors with much spirit; but M. Goefle, an instant before so animated, had suddenly fallen into a brown study, and, as in the morning, seemed to be divided between the desire of making merry and that of solving some problem.

“What are you thinking about, my dear uncle?” said Christian, filling his glass. “Do you blame me for having thrown aside my incognito before these good friends?”

“By no means,” answered the lawyer; “and if you permit, I will repeat your story succinctly to these gentlemen, so as to convince them that they are right in admitting you to their friendship.”

“Yes, yes! the history of Christian Waldo!” cried the two officers. “It must be very curious; and if it ought to be kept secret, we swear upon our honor--”

“But it is too long,” said Christian. “I am going to stop here at least two days longer. Let us appoint a rendezvous where it will be safer and warmer.”

“Right,” said M. Goefle. “Gentlemen, come and see us at Stollborg to-morrow; we will have dinner or supper together.”

“But to-morrow,” replied the major, “is the bear-hunt. Will you not come, both of you?”

“Both? No; I am no hunter, and I don’t like bears. And it is not in Christian’s line, either. Suppose a bear should bite off one of his hands; he finds two none too many to work his marionettes. Show me your hand, Christian. That is a singular crook of your little finger. I never noticed it. It is from a hurt, is it not?”

“No,” said Christian; “I was born so.”

And holding out his left hand, he added:

“This is the most striking; but still, both my hands have the same defect in a slight degree. However, it gives me no sort of inconvenience.”

“Singular; very singular!” repeated M. Goefle, scratching his chin, as he habitually did when he was puzzled.

“Not so very singular,” said Christian; “I have observed this trifling deformity in other people. For instance, I noticed it in the Baron de Waldemora, and much more obvious than in me.”

“Yes, by Jove! precisely! That is just what I was thinking about. His two little fingers are quite closed down. Had you observed it, gentlemen?”

“Very often,” said Larrson; “and before Christian Waldo, who gives almost all his earnings to the poor, it may be said, without any allusion being suspected, that such closed fingers are reckoned a sign of avarice.”

“And yet,” said M. Goefle, “the baron is not close about money. I know it might be said, in his case, that his love of display is an additional reason for coveting riches at any cost; but his father was very disinterested, and his brother generous to excess. So the shut fingers prove nothing.”

“Had the baron’s father and brother this same peculiarity?” asked Christian.

“Yes, and very marked, as I have understood. And one day, as I was studying the family portraits, I was quite surprised to find several of his ancestors with the same crooked fingers. Is not that a very singular thing?”

“Let us hope,” observed Christian, “that I shall never be like the baron in any other respect. But as to the bear-hunt, even if I should lose both my _deformed_ hands, I am dying to be one of the party. I shall make a point of going.”

“Come with us!” cried Larrson; “I will call for you in the morning.”

“Early?”

“Why, certainly; before daylight.”

“That is to say,” said Christian, smiling, “a little before noon.”

“You calumniate our sun,” said the lieutenant; “it will rise in seven or eight hours from this time.”

“Well, then, let’s go to bed.”

“To bed!” cried M. Goefle; “already? The punch wouldn’t let you sleep, even then. I’m only beginning to recover from my emotion over Stangstadius’s wig. Let me have time to breathe, Christian. I thought you were better company. You are not at all merry to-night, do you know?”

“I confess it; I am as melancholy as an Englishman,” said Christian.

“Why so, nephew? for I shall insist upon it in private that you are my nephew, though I so shamefully disowned you in public. What makes you melancholy?”

“I don’t know at all, my dear uncle, unless it is that I am beginning to turn into a mountebank.”

“Explain your aphorism.”

“I have been travelling with my marionettes three months; it is too long. At another period of my life, which I have described to you, I followed the same occupation for about that time, and I felt--though in a less degree, for I was younger--the same result as now. I have moments of great excitement, but my spirits are correspondingly low afterwards; I think of my work with disgust and indifference; when actually performing, I am carried away by a feverish play of fancy, a sort of overflow of gayety or emotion; and as soon as I take off my mask and become an ordinary person again, I am overwhelmed with despondency and self-contempt.”

“Pshaw! all that is my own case, exactly; arguing cases affects me in just that way. Every orator or actor, every artist or professional man, who is obliged to be hard at work for half his life in instructing, enlightening, or amusing others, as soon as the curtain falls is weary of the whole human race and of himself. If I am good-humored and happy at present, it is only because I have been idle for four or five days. You should see me in my own home, on returning from court! You should hear me then, scolding at my housekeeper for not bringing the tea promptly enough, at the clients who are besieging me, at the doors of my house for creaking! Everything irritates me. Finally, I sit down in an arm-chair, take up some book of history or philosophy, or a novel, and very soon go happily to sleep in entire forgetfulness of my cursed profession.”

“You sleep happily, M. Goefle; it is because, in spite of the excitement of your nerves, you feel that you have been doing something earnest and useful.”

“Hm! Hm! Not always! One cannot always argue on the right side, and even in pleading the very best cause, one cannot be always sure of using arguments that are exactly just and true. Believe me, Christian, although the saying is that no occupation is foolish, I say that all occupations are so; so it makes little difference which of them you adopt. Do not despise your own, for such as it is, it is a hundred times more moral than mine.”

“Oh! oh! M. Goefle, what a paradox that is! Come, let us hear you argue it! You can use plenty of eloquence there.”

“No eloquence, my children,” said M. Goefle, as the two officers and Christian urged him to give rein to his imagination; “there would be no use in sophisticating; and besides, I am taking a vacation. But I tell you in perfect good faith, that the art of story-telling is superior to all others. It is incontestably the first in point of time, for as soon as men could talk they invented mythologies, composed poems, and recited histories; and it is the first in moral usefulness, too--I am ready to maintain it against the whole university, and even Stangstadius himself, who believes nothing but what he can touch. Man never learns by experience. You may teach him authentic history as much as you please, and, in spite of it, he will continually reenact--on a higher level, if you choose, corresponding to his grade of civilization--the same faults and follies as ever. Do we even learn by our own experience? I know well enough that I shall be ill to-morrow for having played the young man to-night, and you see how much I care for it. It is not reason which controls man, it is imagination--fancy. That is, it is art, poetry, music, painting, the drama. Wait, gentlemen, let me empty my glass before I proceed to my second head.”

“Your health, M. Goefle!” cried the three friends.

“And yours, my children! Well, to proceed: I do not consider Christian Waldo as a showman of marionettes? What is a marionette? A bit of wood covered with a rag. It is the intellect and the soul of Christian which give interest and significance to his pieces. I look on him as not merely an actor, for he has to do something more than vary his accent and change his voice every moment, in order to move his audience; that is a mere trick of his trade. He is an author as well, for his plays are little masterpieces. They remind one of those short, exquisite musical pieces which illustrious composers of the Italian and German schools have written for theatres like his. ‘Music for children,’ they modestly call it, but it has always been the delight of connoisseurs. Then, gentlemen, let us render justice to Christian Waldo.”

“Yes! yes!” cried the two officers, enthusiastic under the influence of their punch; “long live Christian Waldo! He is a man of genius!”

“Not at all,” said Christian, laughing, “but I see now what makes my uncle despise the profession of law so much. It enables him to maintain, and to make other people believe, the most enormous misrepresentations.”

“Hush, nephew! It’s not your turn to speak! I say--but, Christian, you are an ungrateful fellow! You are not a lawyer, and yet you complain! You can investigate the abstract truth embodied in all kinds of fictions, and yet you grow tired of making men love it! You possess intellect, a good heart, education, and knowledge of the world, and here you are calling yourself a mountebank, just to depreciate your work, and perhaps to abandon it! Wretch! is that your purpose?”

“Yes, that is my intention,” said Christian, “I have had enough of it. I did suppose I could keep it up longer, but I find that my constant incognito wearies me; it seems discreditable to a man of my real character. I must find the means of travelling without begging. I have already devoted much thought to this subject--it is a great problem to a man without means. A person who lives in one place can always find work; he who desires to move about, finds it difficult to do so, nowadays. In ancient times, M. Goefle, to travel was to make conquest of the earth for the good of humanity; it was recognized as a high mission, as the vocation of superior minds. The traveller, accordingly, was a sacred being in the eyes of all people. They greeted his arrival with respect, and resorted to him for news of other countries, and of the general progress of humanity. At present, if the traveller has not sufficient means of his own, he must become either a beggar, a thief, or a strolling player.”

“Why do you use such a contemptuous term?” said M. Goefle; “the object of the actor (I should prefer to call him interpreter, since his object is to interpret works of the imagination) is to lead men’s minds away from the merely practical; and since the majority of our stupid race are essentially prosaic, and absorbed in their material interests, the tyrants who govern public opinion discourage both poets and their interpreters. If they dared, they would still more emphatically discourage preachers, who speak to them of heaven, and religion, which wars against selfish passions, and is, in fact, a system of idealism. No one objects to idealism when presented as a revealed truth, for no one dares. But it is promptly rejected when it only says, ‘I come to demonstrate to you the beautiful and good, by means of symbols and fables.’”

“And yet,” said Christian, “the sacred books are full of apologues. It is the preaching suited to an age of faith and simplicity. But it does not seem to me, M. Goefle, that the cause of the prejudice is exactly where you have placed it, or if it be, it is only in virtue of a fact to which I would draw your attention. The actor has no real connection with the rest of society. He does nothing intrinsically useful as an actor, and men’s valuations of each other are based upon an exchange of services intrinsically useful. Remember, all the other professions are intimately concerned with the destiny of every individual in society, even that of the priest; for even to infidels he is still an official indispensable to their civic state. Other professional persons are each, at one time or another, the hope or support of every man. To the physician, he looks for health; the lawyer represents the gaining of his cause; the speculator is to give him a fortune; the tradesman provides him provisions; the soldier protects him; the scientific man promotes the success of his business by making discoveries; the professor of any of the branches of human knowledge is ready to instruct him for some employment or other; the actor alone discourses upon all subjects, but supplies him with nothing--unless it be good advice, which the auditor had to pay for at the door, when he could have given it to himself gratis.”

“Well, well!” cried M. Goefle, “what are you quibbling about, then? We agree perfectly--you are only proving what I said. The vulgar always despise imagination and sentiment.”

“Not exactly that, M. Goefle. It is unfruitful sentiment--unproductive imagination--which they despise! There is a good deal of justice in the opinion of the bourgeois, who might say to the actor, ‘You discourse to me about virtue, love, devotion, reason, courage, happiness! Yes, for that is your trade; but since this is all you can do, you must not object to being set down by me as an idle babbler. If you are anything more, come down from your platform, and help me to arrange my own affairs as well as you arrange the plots of your plays. Cure my gout; gain my lawsuit; enrich my firm; marry my daughter to the man she loves; find a good position for my son-in-law. If you can’t do any of these things, make me a pair of shoes, pave my court-yard. Do something or other to earn the money I have paid you.’”

“And you conclude from this?” said M. Goefle.

“I conclude that every one ought to have an employment in which he can be directly useful to others; and that the prejudice which prevails against actors will cease at once, when theatres shall be free institutions, and when all persons of ability and dramatic gifts shall be prepared to do their part as actors for the love of art, whenever they may be called upon, whatever may be their usual occupation.”

“Well, anyhow, that is a dream that goes far beyond any of my paradoxes.”

“I don’t deny it; but nobody believed in the existence of America two hundred years ago; and it is my opinion that in two hundred years more, we shall see things far more extraordinary than we dream of now in our wildest imaginings.”

This conclusion reached, the friends drank the remainder of the punch, and Christian would have taken leave of M. Goefle, who seemed inclined to go and dance a _courante_ at the new chateau with the young officers. However, the doctor of laws would not part from his young friend, who was really in need of rest; and after having agreed to meet next day, or rather the same day, for it was now two o’clock in the morning, the party went in search of their respective vehicles.

“Well, Christian,” said M. Goefle, when they were seated side by side in the sleigh, on their way back to Stollborg, “were you in earnest in what you said about?--by the way, I notice that I have fallen into a habit, I don’t know how, of addressing you very familiarly by your given name.”

“Please to continue it, M. Goefle, it is very pleasant to me.”

“But I am not old enough to take liberties of that kind--I am not sixty yet, Christian; I don’t want you to consider me a patriarch.”

“God forbid! But I considered the liberty you speak of as a mark of friendship.”

“So it is, my son. Well, in that case I will let ceremony go; tell me--”

Here M. Goefle paused so long that Christian thought he was asleep; but he aroused himself, and said suddenly:

“Tell me, Christian, if you were rich what would you do with your money?”

“Do?” said the young man, surprised; “I should try to make as many people as possible partakers in my happiness.”

“Then it would make you happy?”

“Yes. I would make a voyage round the world.”

“And then?”

“Then?--I don’t know--I would write an account of my travels.”

“And then?”

“I would marry, and have some children. I am very fond of children.”

“And would you leave Sweden?”

“Who knows? I have no ties to bind me anywhere. The deuce take me if--don’t think I am exaggerating, for I am not intoxicated--but, M. Goefle, I feel a very warm affection for you, and I’ll be hanged if the pleasure of living near you would not have a great deal to do with forming my resolution! But what is the use of talking about it? I have no taste for building castles in Spain, and have never anticipated being rich. In two days I shall go, I don’t know whither, and perhaps shall never return.”

When the two friends reached the bear-room, they had so entirely forgotten about its being haunted, that they went to bed and to sleep, without even remembering to renew their consultation concerning the apparition of the previous night.

They tried, for a while, to keep on talking after they had gone to bed; but, though M. Goefle was still somewhat excited, and though Christian answered his remarks with all the good-nature in the world, sleep very soon descended upon the young man like an avalanche of feathers; and the doctor, after scolding a little at Nils, who was snoring loud enough to break the windows, finally went to sleep himself.

It was at just about this time that the Baron de Waldemora awoke, at the new chateau. Johan, on entering the room according to order, found him sitting on the bed, half dressed.

“It is three o’clock, your lordship,” said the major-domo; “have you had any sleep?”

“I have slept, Johan, but very poorly; I have been dreaming about those puppets all night long.”

“Well, my dear master, your dreams can’t have been very sad, then. Those puppets were very amusing.”

“You thought so, did you? Oh, very well!”

“Why, you laughed at them yourself.”

“Oh yes; one must always laugh, of course. Life is one long, perpetual laugh. A melancholy one, Johan!”

“Ah, master, no black thoughts! What are your orders?”

“None. If I am to die to-day, who can hinder it?”

“Die? What the devil put that into your head? You are looking capitally this morning.”

“But if I should be assassinated?”

“Who would think of any such thing?”

“A good many people. And especially the unknown who came to the ball; he whose face and whose threat--”

“That counterfeit nephew of the advocate? I can’t imagine why that fellow’s face should torment you so. It was not in the least like--”

“Be still! you never saw clearly in your life; you are near-sighted!”

“No I am not, indeed.”

“A man insolent enough to look me in the face and defy me, in my own house, before everybody!”

“You have been served so more than once before, and have always laughed at it.”

“And this time I fell, as if struck by a thunderbolt.”

“It’s that cursed anniversary. You know it makes you ill every year; and afterwards you forget all about it.”

“I don’t reproach myself for anything, Johan.”

“The devil! Did you think I was reproaching you for anything?”

“But what can be the matter with this poor head of mine, to make me have these visions?”

“Pshaw! It’s the height of the cold season; everybody sees them.”

“Do you ever?”

“I? no, never. I eat a great deal; but you--you eat nothing at all. By the way, you ought to have something now; some tea, at least.”

“Not yet. What do you think of this Italian’s story?”

“That Tebaldo? You haven’t told me the first word of it.”

“Very true. Well, I will not, either.”

“Why?”

“It’s too absurd. Still--do you believe Lawyer Goefle is my enemy? He may be.”

“I can’t see why.”

“Nor I either. I have always paid him handsomely, and his father was quite devoted to me.”

“And besides, M. Goefle is a man of mind; a fine speaker; a man of the world, and without prejudices, believe me.”

“You are mistaken. He will not bring suit against Rosenstein. He says I am in the wrong; he opposed me yesterday. I hate that Goefle!”

“Already? Pshaw! wait a little. Offer him an uncommonly large fee, and he’ll find out that you are in the right, after all.”

“I did; and got a very disagreeable answer. I tell you I hate him!”

“Very well, then--what do you choose to have _happen to him_?”

“I don’t know yet. We will see. But old Stenson?”

“Old Stenson? What about him?”

“Do you believe he could have betrayed me?”

“When?”

“That is not what I asked you. Do you think him capable of dissimulation?”

“I think he’s an idiot.”

“You are an idiot yourself. He is shrewder than you, or than I either, perhaps. Ah! if that Italian’s story should be true!”

“Then you don’t mean that I shall know it? Very well; go on tormenting yourself. Make your own investigations, and let me go back to bed.”

“Johan, you are scolding me!” said the baron, with extraordinary mildness. “Be satisfied; you shall know all.”

“Oh yes; when you want something of me!”

“I shall want you immediately. This Italian must be made to produce his proofs, if he has any. Was nothing found on him?”

“Nothing. I searched him myself.”

“He told me that he did not have them with him. And what could he have had? Do you remember that Manasses?”

“I should think so! That old fellow who used to sell his merchandise here; and at high prices, too!”

“He is dead.”

“All the same to me.”

“This Italian killed him.”

“What a ridiculous idea! For what?”

“To rob him, probably, and to get a certain letter.”

“From whom?”

“Stenson.”

“An interesting one?”

“Why yes, most certainly, if it contains what this rascal pretends it does.”

“Well, tell me what it was, if you want me to understand.”

The baron and his confidant continued their conversation, but in such low tones that the walls themselves could not have overheard them. The baron was agitated; Johan shrugged his shoulders.

“Well,” said the latter, when his master concluded, “it’s a story that would put you to sleep standing up. This blackguard of a Tebaldo has forged it from the reports that are circulating through the country, so as to make money out of you.”

“He says that he never put foot in Sweden before yesterday, and that he came direct from Holland by way of Drontheim.”

“Possibly; but what of that? He may have picked up his information accidentally somewhere in the neighborhood. So many stories are told about you! And perhaps, in some of his travels, he really did meet this old Manasses, who knew all about them before.”

“Well, what shall we do about it?”

“You must frighten M. Italian, and not allow yourself to be black-mailed. You must promise him--”

“How much?”

“Two or three hours in our _chamber of roses_.”

“He will think it a mere threat. He has heard, no doubt, that racks and wheels were abolished in Sweden, under the old bishop.”

“Do you suppose the captain of the great tower needs any such old rubbish to help him find a tongue in a man of flesh and bones?”

“Then you think--”

“Cover him all up with roses until he confesses that he has lied, or else tells where he has concealed his evidence.”

“Impossible! He will yell, and the castle is full of people.”

“But the hunt? You must go to it whether alive or dead; every one will follow you.”

“Somebody always stays, if it be only some one’s servants. And then the old women--they will be whispering about that I am exerting an authority which the state has strictly reserved for itself.”

“Oh, nonsense! Don’t trouble yourself about them. Besides, I will arrange all that; I will say it is a poor devil whose leg has been crushed, and who is being operated upon.”

“And will you receive his information?”

“Certainly. Who else.”

“I should prefer to be there myself.”

“You know you are so soft-hearted that you can’t bear to see any one in pain.”

“Very true; it puts my stomach and bowels out of order. Well, I’ll be off at the hunt.”

“Do so; and in the meanwhile go to sleep again. I will see to everything.”

“And will you find the unknown?”

“He must be a confederate of this fellow. We shall only find him through Tebaldo’s confessions.”

“Right; it must be so, for he offered to deliver him up to me--But it may not be the same man?”

“Well, I will confess him thoroughly on all points, so sleep in peace.”

“Have you kept your Italian fasting?”

“Why, of course!”

“Go, then; I will try to get a little more sleep. You have done me a great deal of good, Johan. You always have suggestions to make. For my part, I am failing. _Mon Dieu!_ How fast I have grown old.”

Johan now departed, directing Jacob to call his lordship at eight. Jacob was a valet-de-chambre who always slept in a room next the baron’s sleeping-room. He was an honest fellow, to whom the baron had always played the part of a good master; for he knew how important it is to have some trustworthy people about one, if only for the sake of sleeping without fear, under their guard.

Christian, in the meanwhile, who always slept well, wherever or in whatever company he was, awoke after about six hours’ rest, and arose softly, to look out at the sky. It was not yet daylight, but as the young man was about to lie down again, he remembered the hunting-party, which they were probably already beginning to organize at the new chateau. Christian was no hunter, except with reference to natural history. He was a capital shot, but had never had a passion for slaughtering game merely to kill time and show his skill; but a bear-hunt was something new, picturesque, and also interesting from a zoölogical point of view. At the thought of it he was instantly wide awake, and fully intent upon witnessing this novel spectacle, although he might possibly find it necessary to return before it was quite over, in order to prepare for his evening’s performance with M. Goefle.

Before going to sleep, he had said something on the subject to the doctor of laws, but he was opposed to his going, since he did not care anything about the hunt himself. Christian accordingly foresaw that his good uncle would try to stop him, and, knowing his own compliant disposition, he also foresaw that he should yield.

“Pshaw!” he said to himself; “I had better slip off quietly, and leave a couple of words in pencil for him, to keep him from being uneasy. He will, perhaps, be a little annoyed, and he will not like breakfasting alone, but he has still some work to do; he has to visit old Stenson again, and I shall probably be back before he begins to feel lonely.”

So Christian stepped softly from the guard-room to the bear-room, where he dressed himself. Then, after putting on his mask under his hat, partly from habit and partly as a precaution, he went out by way of the _gaard_, now plunged in silence and darkness. Thence, passing through the fruit-garden, standing in its wintry desolation, he reached the lake, and finding that he was much nearer the shore at this point than if he had descended by the path on the northern side, he crossed the narrow space of ice, and proceeded by land towards the new chateau.

At this very moment, Johan was advancing across the lake from the opposite direction; without the least suspicion of the recent flight of his game, he was coming to take up his post of observation at Stollborg.

XII.

CHRISTIAN did not expect to find the major at the new chateau. He knew that the young officer, after the evening’s entertainment at the chateau, went every night, or rather every morning, to his bostoelle, which was only a little way off. He had not thought to ask him in what direction his country-house was, and he made no effort, therefore, to find it. It was merely his intention to watch the preparations for the hunt at a distance, and to mix among the peasants who were engaged in the general battue.

He was still following the path along the shore of the lake, when, by the glimmering light of the dawn which was just beginning to appear, he saw a man coming to meet him. He lowered his mask at once, but raised it almost immediately, on recognizing Lieutenant Osburn.

“Upon my word,” said the latter, as they shook hands, “I am delighted to find you here; I was going in search of you, and we shall gain half an hour’s time by this meeting. Come, make haste! the major is close at hand waiting for us.”

They proceeded in the direction from which Erwin Osburn had just come; he took the lead, and very soon turned into a path leading up the left side of the mountain. When Christian, who followed, had ascended this path, which was quite steep, for a few minutes, he saw two sleighs standing motionless in a narrow ravine beneath him. The major, who was in one of them, saw him at the same time, and ran forward with a pleased expression.

“Bravo!” he cried; “you are punctual by inspiration! How the devil did you know that we were here?”

“I had no idea of such a thing,” replied Christian; “I was going to the new chateau merely by chance.”

“Then chance is for us the first thing in the morning; and that is a sign that we shall be fortunate in the hunt. Really, you are capitally disguised, just as you were yesterday evening; but you have neither the proper shoes nor weapons for the present occasion. Luckily I foresaw that it would be so, and we have brought all that you will want. In the meanwhile, take this cloak as a protection against the cold, and let us start instantly. We are going quite a distance, and the day will not be too long for all we have to do.”

Christian stepped, with Larrson, into one of the small country sleighs, very light, with seats for two, and drawn by a little mountain horse. The lieutenant and Corporal Duff, a kind-hearted old man, a non-commissioned officer, and a great expert in hunting, got into the second sleigh, which was exactly like it. The major took the lead, and they started at a rapid canter.

“You must know,” the major said to Christian, “that we are making all this haste so as to have a private hunt of our own. The baron has plenty of game, and plenty of skilful marksmen upon his domain, and he himself is a very accomplished and very courageous hunter. But as he will be obliged to conduct or send a great many of his guests to the battue to-day, who are more remarkable for their boasting than their skill, it is much to be feared that they will make a great deal of noise, and do very little execution. Besides, the battue with peasants has no great interest, as you can see for yourself, when we return down that mountain that you see before you, after having made our expedition. It is really a sort of cowardly assassination. They surround the poor bear, who is not always willing to leave his den; they terrify him, they harrass him, and when he comes out at last to fight or fly, they shoot at him without the least danger, from behind strong nets, where they are protected from his desperate attacks. Of course there can be nothing exciting, nothing unexpected or startling in a hunt conducted in this way; and besides, it often happens that the impatient and awkward members of the party make the whole thing fail, and that the beast has packed off before they can come up to it. We shall go to work in a very different way, without trackers, without noise, and without dogs. I will tell you what is to be done, when the right time comes. And you may rest assured that a real hunt is like all true pleasures; it does not admit of a crowd. It is a noble diversion, which you can only enjoy with your friends, or persons of exceptional merit.”

“I must thank you doubly, then,” replied Christian, “for wishing me to share with you this confidential pleasure; but pray explain to me how it is that you are at liberty to kill the baron’s game before him. I should have thought he would be more jealous of his prerogatives as a hunter, and of his rights as a proprietor.”

“For that very reason it is not his game that we are going to try and kill. His estates are considerable, but the whole country does not belong to him, God be praised! Do you see those fine mountains directly in front of you? that is the Norwegian frontier, and on the outskirts of those gigantic ramparts we shall find a group called _Blaakdal_. There, in the midst of those sublime wildernesses, and sometimes enveloped by clouds, for the summits of the mountains are not often so clear as they are to-day, live a few free peasants, who are landowners. From one of these _dannemans_ (that is what they are called) my friends and myself have purchased a bear, whose retreat he has just discovered. This _danneman_, whose familiarity with all such matters makes him a very interesting man, lives in a magnificent site, which is almost inaccessible to a carriage, but, with the help of God and these good little mountain-horses, we shall get there. We will breakfast at his house, after which he himself will be our guide to his lordship the bear, who--since he has not been tracked beforehand by babblers and reckless fools--will await us without mistrust, and receive us--according to his mood at the moment. But look, Christian, see what a beautiful spectacle! Have you already beheld this phenomenon?”

“No, not yet,” cried Christian, transported with joy; “and I am very glad to see it in your company. I have heard of it, and that is all; it is a magnificent parhelion!”

In fact, five suns were rising above the horizon. The true, the powerful star of day was accompanied to the right and left, and on either side of its radiant disk, by four luminous images, not so brilliant, and not so round as the real sun, but surrounded by rainbow-hued halos of marvellous beauty. As our hunters were riding towards the west, they stopped for several moments to enjoy this optical effect, which is produced by very much the same causes as the rainbow, although it is scarcely ever seen in Europe, except in the extreme north.

At first they drove along a broad highway, but this soon dwindled into a narrow, uneven lane, leading through private estates; the lane turned into a path, and then followed the open country, uncultivated and rugged, with only a few scarcely perceptible tracks cut into the snow along the hill-sides. After this, Larrson, who understood perfectly both the country and the capabilities of the sleigh he was driving, dashed forward into a really terrific region, over the bare sides of the mountain; on he went, careering along the very edge of precipices, slipping at full speed into the bottom of almost perpendicular ravines, jumping ditches at a flying leap, shooting over fallen trees and tottering rocks, without even condescending to avoid these fearful obstacles, which seemed every moment as if they would shiver the fragile sleigh into fragments. Christian did not know whether to admire most the audacity of the major or the skill and courage of the thin little horse, whose marvellous instinct was like a sort of second sight, and which the driver accordingly allowed to go its own way. Twice, however, the sleigh was upset. It was not the fault of the horse, but of the vehicle, which could not accommodate itself quickly enough to his movements, in spite of its ingenious construction. These overturns are sometimes serious; but they are so frequent that very few of them, in comparison with the number that occur, amount to anything. The lieutenant’s sleigh, although he was warned by the accidents befalling the party in advance, as they cut their way through the ice, was also upset two or three times. The young men rolled in the snow, shook themselves, replaced the sleigh upon its runners, and started again, without thinking anything more of the adventure than if they had got out to lighten the load of the horse a little. In other countries, an upset makes people laugh or tremble; here, it is accepted quietly, as one of the things that are anticipated and inevitable.

Christian experienced a feeling of unspeakable content, of inward peace, during this exciting race.

“I cannot express to you,” he said to the good major, who was really like a brother in his kindness and devotion, “how happy I am to-day!”

“God be praised! dear Christian, for last night you were melancholy.”

“It was the darkness that made me so: the lake, whose beautiful covering of snow had been soiled by the race, and which looked like a mass of lead under our feet. It was the hogar, lighted by torches as gloomy as funereal torches gleaming over a tomb. It was that barbarous statue of Odin, which, with its threatening hammer and its formless arm, seemed to be hurling down some mysterious malediction upon the new world--no longer subject to his power--and upon our profane band! The whole scene was beautiful, but yet terrible; my imagination is vivid, and then--”

“And then, confess,” said the major; “something was troubling you.”

“Perhaps so; a dream, a foolish fancy which the return of the sun has dissipated. Yes, major, the sun exerts as beneficent an influence upon the spirit of man as upon his body. It illumines the soul as well as the natural world. This strangely beautiful and fantastic sun of the north is still the same as the glowing sun of Italy, and the mild sun of France. It does not give so much heat, but I imagine that it gives even more light than elsewhere, in this country of silver and crystal! All nature is its mirror, even the atmosphere, in these regions of immaculate ice. Blessed be the sunshine! Don’t you agree with me, major? And blessed be you, also, for bringing me with you on this revivifying drive, which inspires and strengthens me. Yes, yes, this is the life that suits me!--movement, air, warmth, cold, light! The world before you, a horse, a sleigh, a ship--pshaw! still less, legs, wings, liberty!”

“You are a strange being, Christian! For my part, I should prefer, to all that, a woman whom I loved.”

“Well,” said Christian, “and I too, perhaps! I am not strange at all; but you must be able to support your family, or else remain a bachelor. What would you have me do with nothing? Unable to dream of happiness, I have at least the consolation of knowing how to forget my deprivations, and of feeling a sincere enthusiasm for the austere joys that are within my reach. Do not talk to me about a family, and the corner of a fireside. Let me dream of the free wind wafting you towards unknown shores--I know, dear friend, that man is made to love! I feel it deeply at this very moment, by the side of a person who has received me like a brother, and whom I must leave to-morrow, perhaps forever; but, since it is my destiny to be unable to establish any ties, in any place, since I have neither country, nor family, nor position in this world, the whole secret of my courage lies in the faculty I have acquired of enjoying happiness on the wing, and of forgetting that the morrow will inevitably sweep it away like a beautiful dream. And besides, I have reflected a great deal since we drank our punch in the grotto of the hogar.”

“Poor fellow! you must be in love, for you have not slept.”

“Whether in love or not, I slept the sleep of the innocent; but one reflects quickly when he has not many hours to lose in life. While dressing myself, and while coming from Stollborg to join you, I was deeply impressed by one plain and simple truth. This is that I have made a mistake in trying to solve the problem of the wandering artist’s career. I have reasoned like a spoiled child of civilization, and have been unwilling to resign the enjoyments of the sybarite. But let me explain myself more clearly--”

Christian, now, without relating the material facts of his life to the major, gave him a brief sketch of his inclinations, desires, weaknesses, and the progress of his moral and intellectual life, and explained to him how it was that he had tried to become an artist, so that he might continue to devote himself actively to the service of science.