Chapter M: GOEFLE’S fourth meal had just been served, and he was seriously

occupied in giving Master Nils a lesson in deportment, while the child, standing before him with a napkin on his arm, seemed in quite a teachable mood.

“Bravo, Christian, you have come precisely at the right time!” cried the doctor of laws; “I was on the point of taking my coffee all alone. I made it myself, for both of us; I can guarantee that it is excellent, and you must want something to warm your stomach.”

“I will join you in a moment, my dear doctor,” replied Christian, taking off his torn vest and preparing to wash his hands, which were covered with blood.

“Good gracious!” resumed M. Goefle, “are you wounded, or have you by chance cut the throats of all the bears of Sevenberg?”

“There has been a little of that,” replied Christian, “but I think it is human blood that is on my hands now, Oh, M. Goefle, I have such a story to tell you!”

“You are pale!” cried the lawyer; “you have something more serious to tell me about than a hunting exploit. What has happened--a quarrel--a misfortune? Speak quickly--you take away my appetite.”

“Nothing has happened to me that ought to have that effect upon you, M. Goefle. Go on with your supper. I will try to keep you company, and I will speak French, because of--”

“Yes, yes,” replied M. Goefle, in French; “because of the red ears of this little imbecile. Go on, I hear you.”

While Christian was giving M. Goefle all the particulars of his adventures, and confiding to him also his conjectures and his emotions, they heard from afar the sound of the noisy fanfares. The baron had left the forest as he so frequently disappeared from his saloons. The cold, the fatigue of the expedition, and, above all, his impatience to attend to the business treated of in Johan’s missive, were more than he could endure, and accordingly, after killing a deer, he had stepped into his sleigh under the pretence of going farther on, while the other hunters were requested to pay no attention to his movements, but to continue their sports in any way they chose. Soon after, Larrson and the lieutenant had joined this hunt, where, agreeably to the universal anticipation, no trace of any bears had been seen, but where some few white deer had been killed, and a great number of very large hares.

When the fog came on, the prudent people hastened to drive back to the chateau; but some of the young folks, escorted by all the peasants of the neighborhood, who had been employed as trackers, delayed too long in descending the mountain, and were obliged to stop at the foot of the hogar, where Larrson advised that they should wait until the moon arose, or until the vapors hanging over the lake should be lifted by the sudden gust of wind by which the rising of the moon is often preceded. Some of the party had the lanterns of their sleighs lighted, and preferred to return at once, but about a dozen remained. Plenty of brandy was distributed to the peasants, who dispersed to their various homes. The servants and marksmen blew trumpets, and lighted a large fire on the hogar, close to the formless fragments of the statue of snow, and the merry company assembled in the grotto, before which the game was piled up in the form of a pyramid, and gayly chatted there at their leisure, relating their adventures, and discussing the various episodes of the hunt.

But the major’s stories so far exceeded what any of his companions had to relate, that soon every one was silent, to listen to him. Among his audience, which included both sexes, were Olga, Martina, and Margaret, who had been allowed by her aunt to remain on the hogar with Mademoiselle Potin and the minister’s daughter.

“So, gentlemen,” said Olga to the major and the lieutenant, “you have been slyly performing dangerous exploits, the proof of which you promise to show us to-morrow, if we will consent to take a walk to your house.”

“Say the _proofs_!” replied the major; “an enormous creature, a spotted bear with blue eyes, quite a large black bear, and two cubs, which we intend to bring up, so as to have the pleasure of letting them loose and hunting them when they are grown.”

“But who was so fortunate as to kill or capture them all?” inquired Martina Akerstrom, the blond fiancée of the lieutenant.

“The lieutenant captured a cub,” replied the major, turning with an expressive smile to his friend; “the corporal and myself caught another; the peasant who was guiding us wounded the large she-bear, and attacked the black bear; but these two furious beasts would infallibly have torn him into pieces, if another of my friends, who reached the spot all alone, had not ripped open the first, and broken the head of the other with a ball, at half an inch from the poor devil’s face.”

If Christian’s exploit had been related a third time, it is quite evident that the distance between his ball and the danneman’s head would have been inappreciable. The major certainly did not intend to exaggerate: however, his auditors cried out in amazement; but the lieutenant struck his fist upon the table, and took an energetic oath that the distance, if anything, was less, rather than greater, than what the major had said. The lieutenant did not intend to exaggerate, either; how could his dear Osmund be mistaken?

“Well, at any rate,” said Margaret, “the slayer of the monsters you have described must be very courageous, and have great presence of mind, and I should like to offer him my sincere congratulations. Does he remain anonymous out of modesty, or is he not here?”

“He is not here,” replied the baron.

“Is it really true?” rejoined Martina Akerstrom, looking artlessly at her betrothed.

“It is only too true,” answered the lieutenant, heaving a heart-felt and equally ingenuous sigh.

“But did he make you promise,” said Margaret, “not to reveal his name?”

“We would not have consented to make any such promise,” replied the major, “we love him too well for that; but, when one has a secret which, by good luck, excites the curiosity of the ladies, he likes to make his importance felt, and so we will not tell you anything more--will we lieutenant?--until you have done your very best to guess the name of our hero.”

“Perhaps it was Monsieur Stangstadius,” said Mademoiselle Potin, laughing.

“No,” replied some one, “the professor was at our hunt, and he left with the Baron de Waldemora.”

“Well,” said Olga, “it may have been precisely to join these gentlemen that they went. Who knows whether it was not the baron?”

“Such exploits are not suited to his age,” said a young man, who would have been very glad to pay court to Olga, in an affected tone.

“Why not?” she rejoined.

“I do not say,” observed Larrson, “that he is too old for such exploits, but it is my opinion that he has never had a taste for them. The baron has never, I believe, hunted in the new style; that is, without being intrenched behind a net of strong and well-stretched cords.”

“What!” cried Margaret, “did you hunt without nets?”

“In the same way as the peasants of the mountain,” rejoined the major; “it is the best way.”

“But it must be very dangerous!”

“It was our friend alone who found it so to-day. We will show you to-morrow his coat of reindeer skin. The way in which the claws of the bear have turned this excellent shield into a kind of lace, will show you that he was in very close quarters with the enemy.”

“But it is madness to expose yourself so,” cried Margaret. “Nothing in the world would induce me to witness such a spectacle!”

“And what is the name of this Meleager?” inquired Olga; “will you not satisfy our curiosity?”

“Confess,” said the major, “that you have not tried very hard to guess it.”

“Yes, indeed; but the best hunters at the chateau--all I should have thought capable of such feats--are here, and you say that your hero is not present?”

“You have forgotten some one who was at the chateau only last evening,” rejoined the lieutenant.

“I have tried in vain to think,” replied Olga; “I give it up, unless, indeed, it should be the black mask, the man of mystery, the learned buffoon, Christian Waldo--”

“Well, and why not?” said the major, glancing stealthily at Margaret, who had blushed deeply.

“Was it he?” she cried, with unaffected eagerness.

“_Mon Dieu!_” said the young Russian, but more through thoughtlessness than malice, for she was not bad-hearted. “One would say, my dear child, that you are very much interested in knowing--”

“You know,” observed good Mademoiselle Potin, opportunely, “that Countess Margaret is afraid of Christian Waldo.”

“Afraid of him?” said the major, in surprise.

“Why, certainly,” replied the governess, “and I confess that I am a little in the same case. A mask always frightens me.”

“But you have never even seen Christian’s mask.”

“Oh, that only makes it the more alarming,” she answered, laughing. “We are only really afraid of what we have never seen. All the stories that are told of this witty comedian are so strange! And his death’s head, that they talk about! We have heard enough about him to make one dream all night, and tremble at hearing his name!”

“Well,” said the major, “do not tremble any more, ladies; we have seen the face of Christian Waldo all day long, and in spite of what the baron said last night, his pretended death’s head is the head of a young Antinous. Isn’t it true, lieutenant, that he is the handsomest young man you ever saw?”

“As handsome as he is amiable, educated, and brave,” replied the lieutenant.

And even Corporal Duff, who was outside smoking his pipe, and listening to the conversation, now raised his voice as if in spite of himself, to praise the cordiality, nobility, and modesty of Christian Waldo.

Margaret asked no questions, and did not even venture to make any mental comments upon what she had heard; but while apparently fully occupied in fastening her pelisse, for they had risen to go, she did not lose a word of the praises bestowed upon her friend of the previous evening.

“How is it?” said Olga, who was also preparing for their departure, “that an educated and distinguished man can consent to follow a calling, I will not say disgraceful, but certainly frivolous, and which, after all, will not be likely to make him rich?”

“He don’t make a business of his present occupation,” replied the major, eagerly; “he follows it merely as an amusement.”

“Oh, excuse me, he is paid for his entertainments.”

“Well, and so are we soldiers paid for serving the state. Are not our estates and revenues the salary we receive for our services?”

“There is a difference between a salary and wages,” said Margaret, with gentle melancholy; “but it begins to be cold: shall we not go? I don’t think it will be dangerous now on the lake.”

The major saw, or thought he saw, that Margaret was anxious to have a talk with him; he offered her his arm, therefore, to her sleigh, and begged Mademoiselle Potin to allow him to have a seat with them in returning to the chateau. With a few brief words he gave the lieutenant to understand that he would like to have Olga return in another sleigh with himself and Martina Akerstrom; and the good lieutenant, without troubling himself about the reason of the major’s request, which he obeyed as if it had been a military order, offered his services to his fiancée and the young Russian.

Thanks to this arrangement, Osmund was at full liberty to espouse Christian Waldo’s cause warmly, and to try and change the bad opinion which Margaret and Mademoiselle Potin, her discreet confidante, seemed to have formed of him. To succeed in this, he had only to repeat his conversation with Waldo, and inform them of his generous and eccentric determination to endure the greatest poverty and suffering, rather than continue his adventurous career, of which he himself disapproved. Margaret listened with apparent tranquillity, as if she had been called upon to express her approbation of some case in which she had no personal interest. However, she was not a skilful actress, and the major, who had sufficient delicacy to adopt the same tone as herself, was not deceived as to the interest with which she really regarded his friend in her secret soul.

In the meanwhile Baron Olaus had been laid upon his bed, where he appeared calm. The physician, as usual, eluded the questions of his heirs. They all soon knew that their _dear and respectable uncle_ had returned from the hunt so feeble that his people had been obliged to carry him in, undress him, and put him to bed, like a child; but, according to the physician, he was suffering merely from one of his customary accidental and temporary attacks. Johan gave orders that the amusements and games should continue. The comedy of marionettes was announced for eight o’clock. And as for Doctor Stangstadius, who might have revealed how ill he really was, he had returned from the hunt only to ascend into the observatory of the chateau, to study at his leisure the phenomenon of the dry fog, which he attributed, and perhaps correctly, to volcanic exhalations proceeding from Lake Wetter.

The only person who was really anxious was Johan. As soon as he was left alone with his master, though the physician, who had retired to change his dress and take some food, had implored him to keep the baron from being disturbed, he resolved to find out what he was to think of his mental condition.

“Come, my master,” he said, with his customary familiarity, a privilege granted to him alone, which he was never afraid of abusing, and for very sufficient reasons; “are we really dead this time? Haven’t you a single smile for your old Johan? one of those sweet little smiles that mean, ‘I bid defiance to disease, and I mean to bury all the fools who would like to see me go to the devil’?”

The baron tried in vain to gratify him; the victorious smile which he attempted to summon to his countenance proved a melancholy grimace, accompanied by a deep sigh.

“Anyhow, you understand me?” resumed Johan; “that is something.”

“Yes,” replied the baron, in a feeble voice; “but I am very ill this time! That ass of a doctor--”

And he tried to show his arm.

“He bled you?” said Johan. “He says that it saved your life; let us hope so: but you must exert your will; you know perfectly well that that it is your only remedy. Your will performs miracles!”

“I have none left.”

“No will? Nonsense! When you say that, it always means that you are very determined indeed about something; and I can tell you what you want now--that these two or _three_ Italians--”

“Yes, yes, all of them,” rejoined the baron, with a gleam of energy.

“There, now!” resumed Johan, “I knew I could bring you round! Did you see the proof?--”

“It is unanswerable.”

“Stenson’s writing?”

“And his signature--all the details! It is strange--strange! but it is true.”

“But where have you put it, in the name of heaven?”

“In the pocket of my hunting-dress.”

“I cannot find it.”

“You have not looked carefully. It is there. No matter! Listen: I am overcome with fatigue--Stenson in the tower!”

“At once?”

“No, during the comedy.”

“And the others?”

“Afterwards.”

“In the tower also?”

“Yes; some excuse.”

“That is easy. A silver plate slipped into the baggage of these jugglers. They will have stolen it.”

“Good!”

“But if their suspicions are awakened? If the true and false Christian do not come?”

“Where are they?”

“Who can find out in this fog? I have given orders; but an hour ago no one had returned to Stollborg, which is watched and surrounded on all sides.”

“In that case, what will you do?”

“The proof--that is the portfolio--destroyed, and the man who gave it up to you dead, his secret is dead too, since Christian Waldo does not know anything about it.”

“Is that quite certain?”

“When we get hold of him we will make him confess.”

“But he is not in our hands yet.”

“Perhaps, by this time--I will go myself to Stollborg, and find out.”

“Go quickly!--But if he should refuse to come to the chateau this evening?”

“Then Captain Chimère will go over there with--”

“Very good! and the lawyer?--”

“I will tell him beforehand that you send for him. However--we must be ready for anything; if he refuses to obey?--”

“That will be the proof--”

“That he has an understanding with your enemies. And then?--”

“So much the worse for him.”

“That is serious--such a well-known man!”

“Do not harm him; keep him out of it.”

“Yes, if possible. No matter, I will try. I will go at once to Stollborg and slip your gold goblet into the pack-saddle of the ass. That will be the excuse for seizing the jugglers, even if we have to go there to catch them. But there may be some disturbance. Christian is a fighting man, and Stollborg is very near.”

“So much the better; they will silence him the sooner.”

“The major and the lieutenant have taken a great liking to this mountebank. We must be careful, and choose the right moment. I have ordered all the brass instruments in the chateau to be kept playing, and outside they are sending off rockets and fireworks every moment.”

“Well thought of!”

“How do you feel now?”

“Better; I think I can even recall--wait, Johan--that face--I dreamed about it again to-day. When was it? Wait, I say! Was it a dream? Destruction! I cannot, Johan, my head refuses--my brain is confused, as it was yesterday.”

“Well then, don’t torment yourself; I will find out all about it myself; it is my affair. Come, be quiet! you will come out victorious, as you always do. I will send Jacob to you.”

Johan went out. The baron, exhausted by the effort he had made, fainted in Jacob’s arms, and the physician, hastily recalled, had a great deal of difficulty in bringing him to his senses. Then the patient recovered a feverish energy.

“Off with you, doctor!” he cried; “I am tired of your face! You are ugly! every one is ugly! He is beautiful--_beautiful_, if they speak the truth; but that will not help him any. When one is dead he soon becomes hideous, does he not? Still, if I should die before him, I should like to leave him my fortune--that would be droll! But if I live, he must die; nothing shall save him. Say, then, doctor, do you think I am crazy?”

The baron, after raving in this way for a few moments, fell into a restless, feverish sleep. It was then six o’clock in the evening, and the company at the chateau were just sitting down to the _aftonward_, the light repast which precedes supper.

We are really grieved at being obliged to try the reader’s patience with so many meals, but we should not be true to facts if we should suppress a single one of them. We are forced to remind him that it is the custom of the country to eat every two hours, and that a century ago no one thought of deviating from it, especially in the country, and in winter. Pretty women lost nothing of their poetry in the eyes of their admirers by having an excellent appetite. It was not the fashion to be pale and hollow-eyed. The fresh and brilliant complexions of the beautiful Swedes did not rob them of their empire over heart and imagination, and though not at all sentimental, the young people of both sexes were really very romantic. The little Margaret, accordingly, and the tall Olga, the blonde Martina, and several other nymphs of these frozen lakes, after having taken coffee in the grotto of the hogar, ate their cream and cheese in the great gilded saloon of the chateau, each dreaming about love in her own way, and all of them happily unconscious that fasting could be considered a necessary condition of sentiment.

There were no longer so many guests at the new chateau as there had been during the first few days of the Christmas holidays. Several mothers had carried away their daughters, when they found that Baron Olaus paid them no attention. The diplomats of both sexes, who had an interest in keeping up their relations with him, and his presumptive heirs--whom the baron was in the habit of calling, when he joked about them in French, his _presumptuous_ heirs--remained, in spite of the gloom that he shed around him. Countess Elveda was very much irritated at not being able to come to any understanding with her mysterious host; but she consoled herself by flirting with the Russian ambassador. The mornings and afternoons were occupied by the elderly ladies in making and receiving visits in their respective apartments, with a great deal of ceremony and solemnity. On such occasions, they always conversed about the same subjects: the beautiful winter weather, the magnificent hospitality of their host, his remarkable wit--perhaps a little severe--his indisposition, and the wonderful courage with which he bore it, so as not to interfere with the enjoyment of his guests; and, as they conversed thus, they stifled Homeric yawns. And then they talked politics, and argued with great bitterness, which did not prevent them from discoursing about religious topics in an edifying manner. For the most part they entertained the persons who had just come in, by saying all the evil possible of those who had just gone out.

The young people were the only ones who contrived to throw off the moral coldness and gloom which seemed to permeate the very atmosphere. There were about a score of them, of both sexes, who, with or without the consent of their families, had formed attachments among themselves, of a more or less tender character, and who, meeting freely, as they did every hour of the day, acted as each other’s chaperons and confidantes. With this happy group were associated some few persons who, though older, were nevertheless benevolent and cheerful; governesses, of whom Mademoiselle Potin was one, the pastor’s family, who were always very highly considered, and courted in all country festivities, several old country gentlemen, plain and simple-hearted, the baron’s young physician, when he could escape from the claws of his tyrannical and cunning patient; and, best of all, the illustrious Stangstadius, whenever they could get hold of him, and contrive to keep him with them by paying him--for their own amusement--the most extravagant compliments, the sincerity of which he never doubted, even when they referred to the charms of his person.

The collation of the _aftonward_ was as gay to-day as ever, even although the geologist did not make his appearance. The young folks--as the matrons called them--did not even notice the anxious and agitated faces of the servants, who were not quite so blind to the real state of their master’s health, as they would have liked to persuade those among them whose business it was to act as spies upon the others.

After the collation, they declared that they had heard enough about the feats of the hunters, and Martina proposed that they should play hide-and-seek, a game that they had enjoyed very much the evening before, partly, perhaps, because they had to go to a different part of the chateau to play it. Instinctively, they avoided a certain isolated pavilion occupied by the master of the house, and perhaps, without openly admitting it, they were not sorry to have an excuse--that of not disturbing the host--for avoiding as well the stately apartments occupied by their parents and relatives. In the upper story of the outer circle of buildings, which was connected by numerous passages with the lower rooms--the latter were used for various domestic purposes, as wine-cellars, bleaching-rooms, etc.--there were a number of long, gloomy, and almost deserted galleries, where they had plenty of room to look for each other, and plenty of dark corners to hide in. They drew lots for the different parties, and Margaret found herself with Martina and her fiancée, the lieutenant.

XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is not here.”

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

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

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

“His orders--what orders?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, I am sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you quite sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who gave it to you? Was it not?--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“No, no!”

“Tell the truth, at once!”

“No!”

“I will pull your ears.”

“No you won’t; I’ll run away.”

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

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

“Let me see it.”

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

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

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

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

“What were they saying?”

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

“Three--or six?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfectly sure.”

“Have you read them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, indeed!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know no such person!” said Christian.

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

“That was not his name,” rejoined Christian.

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

“No, not that I know of.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVII.