Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“That is true; he is a distinguished man, and he has told us so much good of you, that I resolved to see you without letting my aunt know it. Mademoiselle Potin--who is a capital hand at finding out what is going on--learned the day and hour when you were expected at the new chateau; and, as she was watching for your arrival, she heard at once that you had gone to stop at Stollborg, because the new chateau was too full. With a look she told me all, just as I was completing my toilet, with my aunt’s assistance. My aunt had still her own toilet to make, and as this always takes her two hours, at least, she went to her own room. Mademoiselle Potin remained in mine, to make some excuse in case the countess should send for me, while I slipped down a private staircase to the shore of the lake, where Potin had told my faithful Peterson to wait for me with the sleigh, and here I am! But there are the fanfares at the new chateau, announcing the opening of the ball. I must run away as quickly as possible. And then that poor coachman must be frozen with waiting so long. Adieu, Monsieur Goefle! will you allow me to return to-morrow, while my aunt is taking a nap? She always dances a great deal, and gets very tired at a ball, and I can come perfectly well, while I am walking with my governess.”

“Besides, if your aunt is angry,” said Cristiano, in rather too young a tone, “you can tell her that I am lecturing you, just as she would like to have me.”

“No,” said Margaret, with an instinctive feeling of distrust, “I do not want to turn her into ridicule; and it will, perhaps, be as well for me not to return. If you will promise me to make her abandon this horrible marriage, I shall not need to trouble you with my anxiety.”

“I promise to interest myself in you,” replied Cristiano, more guardedly, “as if you were my own daughter; but you must keep me informed as to the success of my efforts.”

“Then I will return. How good you are, Monsieur Goefle, and how grateful I ought to be to you. Oh, I was quite right in saying that you would be my good angel!”

Margaret spoke warmly; and rising, held out her little hands to the pretended old man, who kissed them most respectfully, while gazing for a moment upon the ravishing little countess in her pale rose-colored satin, trimmed with down. He helped her, in the most fatherly way, to clasp her ermine pelisse, and put on her hood without crushing the ribbons and flowers of her coiffure, and then escorted her back to the sleigh, amid whose eider-down cushions she disappeared like a swan in its nest.

The sleigh flew off, leaving a luminous track along the ice, and was lost to sight behind the rocks along the shore before Cristiano, who remained standing on the steep cliffs of Stollborg, had thought either of the piercing cold or of his devouring hunger.

The fact is that the young adventurer, besides being a good deal agitated (of this he took no note), was spellbound by a wonderful spectacle. The bourrasque, completely lulled, had been succeeded by a strong west wind (this wind brings clear weather in the north, although it has an opposite effect in other climates), which had swept the clouds from the sky in a few seconds. The stars were shining with far more brilliancy than in southern countries. Cristiano felt as if he had never seen them before. They looked literally like suns; and the crescent moon also, in proportion as it arose in the purified atmosphere, poured forth a powerful radiance, which, in any other region, would have been super-planetary. The night, already so clear, was made still brighter by the light reflected from the snow and ice, and the grand features of the landscape were as sharply defined in the transparent atmosphere as in a silver dawn.

These features were sublime. Granite mountains, with their angular peaks covered with eternal snows, shut in a narrow horizon, open only along the valley towards the south-west. The level surfaces and details were a little obscured, but the general outline of the picture was brought out with perfect distinctness by the immense side vault of the blue sky left uncovered by the break in the granite chain. Cristiano, who may be said to have groped his way to Stollborg through whirlwinds of snow, knew the points of the compass well enough to understand that he had come by this gently undulating valley, and he formed a very correct idea of the direction of the gorges of Falun. This was the station where he had breakfasted in the morning, while M. Goefle, whose horse was strong and swift, had stopped there at a later hour and for a longer time.

The valley, or rather the chain of narrow valleys leading from Falun to the Chateau de Waldemora, came to an end abruptly in this place, in an apparent cul-de-sac, an irregular amphitheatre of lofty summits formed by one of the spurs of the Sevenberg chain (otherwise the mountains of Seves, or Sevons), which separates central Sweden from the southern part of Norway. Two fierce torrents descend from the heights of Sevenberg, from the north-west to the south-east, follow the chain to the right and to the left, and rush, in proportion as it lowers, the one towards the Baltic and the other towards Lake Wener and the Kattegat. These two torrents, which gradually become rivers, are the Dala and the Klara; or, as we say, the Dal and the Klar.

Stollborg stood upon a small rocky island, in the centre of one of the little lakes formed by the Klar, or by one of its rapid branches. The reader will not care for minute geographical details, but we can describe the principal characteristics of the landscape with sufficient accuracy. It was a scene of wild and savage desolation; the mountains shone in the limpid night like a group of crystal fortresses built at unequal heights, in the boldest and most capricious manner; snowy granite peaks shut in three-quarters of the horizon; a lower range of snowy mica-schist peaks assumed forms less grand and more fantastic; while everywhere a thousand frozen waterfalls hung motionless in diamond needles along the rocks. These silent cascades all converged towards the main stream, which was also imprisoned by the ice, and welded, as it were, to the lake, whose shores could only be traced by the debris and sharp peaks of naked stone whose black flanks the winter had not been able to cover with its white uniform hue.

“I have often been told,” thought Cristiano, “that these severe northern nights reveal unheard-of splendors, both to the eye and imagination. If I should return to Naples and should tell them that their nights appeal only to the senses, and that he who has not seen winter upon his throne of frost cannot form the least idea of the wonders of the divine work, I should probably be insulted or stoned. What then? There is beauty everywhere under heaven, and he who feels that beauty keenly, will always perhaps find the last impression the most satisfactory and inspiring. Yes, this must really be sublime, for here I am forgetting the cold, which I thought I should never be able to endure, and finding a sort of pleasure even in breathing this air that goes through you like a knife. I must certainly go to Lapland, although Puffo forsakes me, and poor Jean perishes in the snow. I want to see a night twenty-four hours long, and the pale glimmer of noon in the month of January. I should have no success in that country, but my moderate earnings here will enable me travel like a great lord, that is to say, alone and on foot, with nothing to do but to see and enjoy the fine flower of life, _novelty_, the quality that distinguishes desire from lassitude, dream from memory.”

Eager and imaginative, the young man gazed far away into the circle of high mountains, in search of the invisible route that he would have to take in going to the north, or entering Norway. In fancy he already saw himself reclining upon the edge of fearful abysses, while, to the amazement of the old Scandinavian echoes, he sang some foolish _tarantelle_, when the music of a distant orchestra struck upon his ear, and he recognized the distant refrain of an old-fashioned French song, probably very new among the Dalecarlians. The music was at the new chateau, where Baron Olaus was giving a ball to his country neighbors in honor of the charming Margaret Elveda.

Cristiano recalled his wandering thoughts. A moment before he had been ready to fly to the North Cape; now his curiosity, thoughts, aspirations, were all directed to the brilliant chateau, glittering on the shore of the lake, and seeming to exhale whiffs of artificial heat into the atmosphere.

“One thing is certain,” he said, “I would not for five hundred crowns (and God only knows how much I need five hundred crowns) quit this strange country to-night, even to be transported by the _walkyries_ to the sapphire palace of the great Odin. To-morrow I shall see this blond fairy again, this descendant of Harold the Fair-haired! To-morrow?--no, indeed, nothing of the kind! I shall not see her again to-morrow; I shall never see her again! To-morrow, the fortunate mortal who has a legitimate right to the sweet name of Goefle will go to the new chateau to confer with his client, and labor with her perhaps, like a genuine heartless business man, to bring about the marriage of the ferocious Olaus and sweet Margaret. To-morrow sweet Margaret will know she has been deceived, and by whom? With what anger, what scorn will she reward my good behavior and wise advice! But all that does not prevent me from feeling hungry, and from being obliged to acknowledge that this December night, between sixty-one and sixty-two degrees of latitude, is rather cool. It makes me think of the time when I used to complain about the winter in Rome!”

Cristiano was returning to the bear-room, when he thought he would give a charitable look at his ass. As he entered the stable, he noticed, for the first time, M. Goefle’s sleigh, which was standing in the coach-house. Why, at the sight of this sleigh, the mind of the adventurer, should have leaped suddenly to a mad resolution, we cannot explain; but, on regaining his comfortable lodging, instead of sitting down quietly to supper with his back to the stove, it is certain that he began to contemplate the full black suit which the doctor of laws had hung over the back of a chair.

Cristiano would have sworn that the grave individual whom he had ventured to imitate was old-fashioned, and perhaps rather shabby in his dress. Not at all. M. Goefle, who had been quite handsome in his youth, dressed remarkably well, was careful of his person, and made it a point of honor to appear in a simple but tasteful costume, doing full justice to his good leg, and still erect and well-formed figure. Cristiano put on the coat, which fitted him like a glove. He found the powder-box and puff, and threw a light cloud over his thick, black hair. The silk stockings were rather tight in the calf, and the shoes with buckles rather large; but what of that! were the Dalecarlians so very critical? In short, in ten minutes the young man was attired like a respectable member of society; a professor of some science, a student in some learned faculty, or member of a dignified profession! No matter what his standing, his figure, at all events, was charming, and his costume irreproachable.

The reader can guess that the adventurer led M. Goefle’s horse from the stable, after begging Jean not to feel lonely; that he harnessed the docile Loki to the sleigh, lighted the lantern, and darted like an arrow down the steep road of Stollborg.

In about ten minutes, he entered the brilliantly lighted court of the new chateau, threw the reins carelessly to the servants in livery, who hastened forward at the sound of the sleigh-bells, and ran up the great front steps of the elegant mansion four steps at a time.

[Footnote 2: The Christmas festivities in Sweden and Norway last from the twenty-fourth of December to the sixth of January.]

III.

CRISTIANO was acting as we do in certain dreams, when we feel drawn on to accomplish some improbable thing without being able to tell how. Were not all his surroundings utterly improbable? This fantastic chateau, called the new chateau, in opposition to the ruin of Stollborg, but dating back, in reality, to the time of Queen Catherine, and which, with its splendor and gayety, seemed to have fallen from the clouds into the bosom of a savage desert; these avenues of naked rock and furious waters, over which, thanks to the winter, elegant equipages made their way without difficulty, although it seemed as if they must be utterly impassable; the rows of lights outlining against the darkness the principal walls with their thick towers, crowned with coppered roofs surmounted by huge spires; the main building long, irregularly flanked with square pavilions, and finished off with gigantic gables notched with statues and emblems; the great clock in the central pavilion, which was striking ten o’clock at night,--an hour when the very bears are afraid to stir the snow where they lie cowering, but when man, the most delicate animal of creation, dances in silk stockings with bare-shouldered women; everything in the savage grandeur of the situation and the courtly scene filling it with animation, even to the playful and quaint harmony of the old-fashioned French music blending unceremoniously with the sharp whistling of the wind in the long corridors;--all this seemed made to astonish a traveller, and confuse the ideas of an Italian.

As he gazed upon the immense saloons, and long gallery painted with mythological divinities, and full of company and noise, Cristiano asked himself whether these people were not phantoms conjured up in mockery by the sorcerers of this solitary place. Whence had they come, with their antiquated dresses, these men in spangled coats, these women with powdered hair, smiling through clouds of feathers and laces? Would not this magical chateau disappear at the stroke of a wand? these gay dancers of the minuet and _chaconne_, would they not fly away in the shape of white eagles or wild swans?

Cristiano had already noticed, however, the national peculiarities of the Swedes; the adventurous isolation of their dwellings, the enormous distances separating them from the little settlements honored by the name of village; the straggling appearance of the villages themselves, which sometimes extend over two or three leagues with only one common centre--the parish church, with its green dome; the contempt of the nobility for cities, which they abandon entirely to the trading portion of the community; in a word, their passion for a lonely country life, united, singularly enough, to a passion for wild, extravagant expeditions, undertaken for the sake of enjoying sudden and apparently impossible social gatherings. Cristiano had been invited to a country merry-making, but he had not foreseen that these characteristic instincts of the Swedes would be made more active by the severity of the climate, the length of the nights, and the apparent difficulty of holding communication with each other. This, however, was a natural consequence of the necessity that man always feels to conquer nature, and turn the compensations that she offers him to account. For two months the baron had given notice for fifty leagues around, that he would entertain the nobility of the country during the Christmas festivities. The baron was neither esteemed nor loved by any one; and yet, for a number of days, his chateau had been full of eager guests, who, coming from all the four points of the compass, had crossed lakes, rivers, and mountains, to attend his summons.

Hospitality is proverbial in Dalecarlia, and, like the love of the people for a country life united to their love of pleasure, it increases in proportion as they live in remote and inaccessible regions. Cristiano, who had noticed with what wonderful kindness strangers are received in Sweden--above all, when they speak the language--had scarcely thought how difficult it might prove to gain admission to a soirée where he knew no one, especially since he had not been invited. He was unpleasantly reminded of his oversight by seeing a sort of major-domo, wearing a sword, who came up to him in the hall, and held out his hand with the utmost politeness, after bowing respectfully.

At first Cristiano was going to shake hands with him kindly, under the supposition that it was a custom of the country to welcome people in this way, but he reflected that he might be asking him to produce his invitation. The major-domo was old, ugly, and pock-marked; his eyes were downcast, and their hypocritical expression was poorly disguised by an affectation of gentle apathy. Cristiano put his hand into his vest pocket, although certain of not finding what he wanted. It is true that he had been invited to visit Waldemora at the expense of his host, but not upon the same footing with the gentlemen of the country. He was preparing, therefore, to play the part of a man who has forgotten his card of admission, and who is disposed to return in search of it, with the privilege of not making his appearance again, when he found in his pocket--that is in M. Goefle’s pocket--a letter signed by the baron, which proved to be a regular invitation for the honorable M. Goefle and family, this being the usual formula. As soon as Cristiano saw what it was, he handed it boldly to the major-domo, who read it at a glance.

“Monsieur is the relative of M. Goefle?” he said, putting the letter into a basket with a great many others.

“Of course!” replied Cristiano, with assurance.

M. Johan (this was the name of the major-domo) bowed again, and opened a door upon the main staircase, where the guests stopping at the chateau were coming and going, as well as the neighbors, who, as they were perfectly well known to the servants of the house, were allowed to enter freely. Cristiano’s introduction was confined to this simple formality, which he would have been very glad to dispense with, for he did not propose to take any direct part in the entertainment, but wanted merely to have a general view of it, and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing the charming Margaret.

He entered, first, the long frescoed gallery that traversed the whole of the main building, and which was decorated with passable success, in imitation of the Italian taste, introduced into Sweden by Queen Christina. The pictures were not good, but they were effective. They represented hunting scenes; and though an artist could not have failed to criticise the drawing and action of the dogs, horses, and wild animals, he could at least have enjoyed the general effect of the brilliant and lively coloring.

Cristiano walked along this gallery until he came to a handsome saloon, where they were beginning to dance. His only thought in looking at the ladies taking part was of Margaret, but his desire to see her was blended with a secret anxiety. How should he renew the conversation begun at Stollborg? how substitute his own character? or, at all events, some new character, no matter what, for the one he had assumed? This no longer appeared to him so easy as he had imagined it would prove on engaging in this wild adventure. He was almost glad to find that Margaret was not in the ball-room; and he took advantage of this respite--for so he felt it to be--to try and form an idea of the company moving before him.

Contrary to his expectation, he found nothing to wonder at. At a first glance, this gathering had none of the peculiarities that he had anticipated. The age, at this period, belonged to Voltaire, and consequently to France. Like most of the European sovereigns, the upper classes in almost every part of Europe had adopted the language, and apparently the philosophical and literary ideas of France. But, as taste, logic, and discernment are always confined to the select few, this infatuation for our ideas gave rise to a great many inconsistencies. For example, the customs and manners of foreign nations reproduced much more frequently the corruption and effeminacy of Versailles than the studious leisure of Ferney. France was the fashion as well as philosophy. Arts, customs, monuments, good breeding, deportment, conduct, were all copied, with more or less success, from the prevailing French fashion. France, with all her contradictory qualities, good and bad, magnificent and petty, noble and contemptible, was accepted indiscriminately. It was one of those characteristic epochs, when progress and decay shake hands before joining in deadly conflict.

The ball given by Baron Olaus was a mere imitation, a little behind the times, of a French reunion of the eighteenth century; and yet the baron hated France, and was intriguing in the interest of Russia. But in Russia also they imitated France, and spoke the French language; at court they were extremely barbarous, and even ferocious in their manners, and yet they were trying to adopt the gallant manners and intellectual refinement of French civilization. Baron Olaus, therefore, was borne along by the irresistible current of the age. We shall learn his history later. Let us return now to Cristiano.

After looking for a while at the dresses of the ladies, which seemed to him only a few years behind French fashions, and at their faces, which were generally sweet and intelligent, although they were not all young and beautiful, he turned his attention to the gentlemen, and tried to recognize, that is to say to guess among them, the face and figure of the master of the house. Not far from the spot where he was observing all that went on without making himself conspicuous, two men were talking in a low voice, with their backs towards him. Involuntarily Cristiano followed their conversation, although he felt no personal interest in it.

These two men were talking French, one with a Russian, and the other with a Swedish accent. The language of courts and diplomacy seemed to be necessary to enable them to exchange their ideas.

“Pshaw!” said the Swede, “I am not a cap any more than a _hat_, although I am thought to be at the head of a certain faction of the thickest cotton caps in the Diet. I laugh at them all alike, as a matter of fact; you understand very little about Sweden, if you think more of one than of the others.”

“I know it,” replied the Russian; “they sell their votes to the highest bidder.”

“Bid, then! You have no other policy. It is simple, and for you easy, since yours is a rich government. I am with you heart and soul, without any question of recompense. With me it is a matter of conviction.”

“I know you are not one of those patriots of the golden age, who are dreaming about the Scandinavian union, and that one can always come to an understanding with you. The empress relies upon you, but you need not hope to avoid her liberality; she accepts no service without rewarding it magnificently.”

“I am aware of it,” replied the Swede, with a brutality that struck Cristiano; “I have learned it from experience. Long live the great Catherine! If she wants to put us in her pocket, let her do it; I shall be the last one to offer any opposition. If she will only rid us of all these foolish doctrines about the rights and liberty of the peasants--which are our curse--she will be doing a good work. The citizens and noblemen who are their leaders, ought to be arrested, and have respectively a good taste of the knout, and a good dose of Siberia administered to them. As for our worthy king, if his bishopric is restored to him, and, above all, if he gets rid of his wife, he will have nothing to complain of.”

“Don’t speak so loud,” replied the Russian, “some one may be listening without seeming to.”

“There is no danger. Every one here pretends to speak French, but there are not ten persons out of a hundred who can understand it. Besides, what I have just said, I am in the habit of saying freely. I discovered long ago that it is the best policy to make your opinions feared. For my part, I shout upon the housetops that Sweden is done for. Let those who object prove the contrary.”

Although Cristiano did not belong to any nation, although he knew nothing either of his country or family, he felt indignant to hear a Swede so impudently selling his nationality, and he tried to see the features of the man who could talk so; but his attention was suddenly diverted by the bustling, awkward approach of an eccentric individual, who was running about from group to group with the activity of a man who is taking pains to do the honors of the entertainment. This individual was dressed in a gaudy red coat, very richly embroidered, and decorated with the Swedish order of the polar star. His wig was frizzed magnificently, in the very worst style, and was much too high for the fashion; while his enormous cuffs of superb lace were more suggestive of luxury than neatness. In other respects he was old, ugly, petulant, and whimsical; slightly hump-backed, very lame, and completely cross-eyed. This last defect gave him, at a first glance, a wicked expression, and Cristiano concluded that this disagreeable original must be one and the same person with Margaret’s absurd and hateful suitor.

To avoid being obliged to introduce himself, and keep up his pretended relationship with M. Goefle, whose name he had assumed unscrupulously and without danger in his interview with the major-domo, Cristiano prudently withdrew. He resolved now to go from room to room until he had seen the young countess, even if he should be obliged to retire immediately, without speaking to her. He imagined that the hump-backed chatelain had looked at him with a good deal of curiosity, but he made his way skilfully through a group of persons who were talking near a door, and flattered himself that he had escaped in time.

He walked along for several minutes, not exactly in a crowd (the place was so large that the guests did not look very numerous), but amid lively groups, which he did not have leisure to observe attentively. Fearing to be questioned before he could find Margaret, he passed with a preoccupied manner and proud expression--which he assumed all the more because he felt his audacity ready to fail him. And yet, whether from curiosity about a guest that no one knew, or because of their admiration for his fine presence and remarkable face, people everywhere seemed inclined to speak to him, or at least to receive his advances favorably. But Cristiano was feeling a sort of vertigo that made him misunderstand the affable glances and good-humored smiles that were bestowed upon him. He hurried along, therefore, without pretending to disguise that he was seeking some one; to the persons who made way before him, he bowed with an easy grace that was natural to him, but without daring to look at them closely.

At last, on returning to the hunting-gallery, as it was called, he saw two ladies, in whom he immediately recognized the blond fairy whom he had seen at Stollborg an hour before, and her governess. Mademoiselle Potin’s simple dress, timid and refined manner, and a something about her unmistakably French, left no doubt as to her identity. This completed the first part of the little romance that Cristiano had planned. He was at the chateau, he had found no sort of difficulty in getting admitted, he had avoided the observation and questions of the master of the house; and, lastly, he had found Margaret under the kind protection of her confidante. But this was not all. He had still to approach the young countess, or attract her attention, and find some means of renewing their acquaintance on a new footing.

The second part of the romance opened in rather an alarming way. Just as Cristiano, who hoped that a look of Margaret’s would inspire him, was trying to catch her eye, he heard an unequal step clamping along behind him, and a shrill, squeaking voice stopped him short with these words:

“Monsieur! Stranger! stranger! Where are you going so fast?”

The adventurer turned, and found himself face to face with the deformed, cross-eyed old man, whom he thought he had so successfully avoided. It was literally face to face, for the lame man, who was rushing in pursuit of him, could not change his gait quickly enough, and almost fell into his arms. Cristiano might have fled, but that would have been to lose everything; he faced it out boldly, and replied:

“I beg a thousand pardons, baron; you are the very person I was looking for.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the lame man, holding out his hand with sudden cordiality; “I thought as much. I remarked your face among all the others. ‘That is an educated man,’ I said to myself; ‘some learned traveller, a serious person, a mind, in a word, and certainly I am the pole which always attracts such magnets,’ Well, here I am, at your service. It gives me pleasure to devote myself to you. I love young people when they are studious, and you can ask me all the questions that you want to have solved.”

There was so much simplicity and good-humor in the old man’s laughing face and vain talk, that Cristiano in his heart accused Margaret of doing him injustice. He was an absurd and impossible lover, to be sure, but he was the best old fellow in the world, and as harmless as a child. Although one of his eyes did wander about the room in a vague and aimless sort of a way, the other one looked at his companion with such a frank and fatherly expression, that it was utterly out of the question to accuse him of ferocity.

“I am overwhelmed by your goodness, baron,” replied Cristiano, sufficiently reassured to be somewhat ironical. “I knew that you were versed in the sciences, and therefore having myself some feeble notion--”

“You wanted to ask my advice, to have the benefit of my instruction, perhaps. Ah! my dear friend, method, method in all things. But I won’t keep you standing among these frivolous people, who are coming and going; sit down, sit down. No one will disturb us; and, if you feel inclined, we will talk all night. When science is the theme, I forget all about fatigue, hunger, and sleep. You are the same, no doubt. The fact is you must be so, or not meddle with becoming learned!”

“Alas!” thought Cristiano, “I have fallen into the bottom of a well of science, and am condemned to the mines, I wager, neither more nor less than an exile of Siberia.”

This discovery was the more cruel, because Margaret had passed on, and was already at the end of the gallery, chatting with one and another of the persons who came forward to greet her, and evidently going to the ball-room, where the baron did not seem at all inclined to join her. He was seated in one of the semicircular embrasures of the gallery, near a stove, concealed by some branches of yew and ivy, which, with various hunting weapons and stuffed heads of wild animals, formed a trophy.

“I see,” said Cristiano, who would have given a great deal to avoid the proposed scientific conversation, “that you are a universal genius. Your skill in hunting is everywhere talked of, and I am surprised that you have time--”

“Why do you take me for a hunter?” replied the old man, with a look of surprise. “Oh! you suppose that I am guilty of the murder of those beasts, whose mutilated heads are hanging there, looking at us so sadly with their poor enamel eyes! You are mistaken; I never hunted in my life. I have a horror of amusements which increase the ferocity only too natural to man. It is to the study of the insensible but fruitful entrails of the globe that I have devoted myself.”

“Excuse me, baron, I thought--”

“There, again, why do you call me baron? I am nothing of the kind; although it is true that the king ennobled me and conferred on me the knighthood of the polar star, as a reward for my labors in the mines of Falun. I was professor of the school of mineralogy in that city, as of course you know, but I have no right to a title. It is quite enough for me to have some few privileges which give me a position with the haughty caste, for which, after all, I don’t care the least in the world.”

“I have made some mistake,” thought Cristiano. “Oh, then! I shall have to escape from this scientific gentleman as quickly as possible, although I seek him out again later.”

But he changed his mind suddenly when he saw Margaret turning back, and proceeding slowly, in spite of numerous interruptions, towards the very spot where he was seated. His only thought now was to put himself on the best terms with the geologist, so that he might introduce him, if he could possibly bring it about, as a distinguished man. He dashed into conversation, therefore; and he knew more than enough to ask intelligent questions. At Falun, in the morning, he had visited the principal mine, and had taken pleasure in collecting a number of interesting specimens, to the great disgust of Puffo, who often thought him crazy. He knew, moreover, that if you listen respectfully to a learned and vain man, and give him an opportunity to display his knowledge, he will be pretty sure, as a usual thing, to think you very intelligent. This is exactly what happened. Without dreaming of asking his name, his country, or his profession, the professor gave Cristiano a minute description of the subterranean world. In fact, upon the surface of the globe, he cared for nothing but himself, his reputation, and his writings; in a word, for the success of his observations and discoveries.

At any other time Cristiano would have listened with pleasure, for he saw plainly that he was talking to a man who was thoroughly master of his subject, and, for his own part, he felt a deep interest in all departments of natural science; but Margaret was approaching, and his thoughts began to wander. The professor noticed his sudden preoccupation, and looking around with his good eye, cried:

“Ah! there is my fiancée! I am no longer surprised! _Parbleu!_ my dear friend, I must introduce you to the most amiable person in the kingdom.”

“It is really he, then!” thought Cristiano, in profound amazement. “I am talking to Baron Olaus! He seems to be half crazy, but this is actually the old man to whom this Rose of the North is to be sacrificed!”

He ceased to doubt, although his surprise was redoubled when he saw Margaret quicken her step, and heard her say to Mademoiselle Potin:

“Here is my lover at last!”

She held out her hand to the old man, and added, with a sweet and almost tender smile:

“What are you thinking of, monsieur, to hide yourself in this little corner, when your fiancée has been looking for you for the last hour?”

“You see,” said the professor to Cristiano, with artless satisfaction, “she looks for me, she is unhappy when I am not with her! What would you have, my beauty? It is not my fault that so many people wish to consult me, and here is a charming young man, a traveller--French, are you not? or Italian, for you have a very slight foreign accent? Allow me, Countess Margaret, to introduce my young friend, M. de ----. Excuse me, monsieur, what is your name?”

“Christian Goefle,” said Cristiano, without hesitation.

At this assumed name, and, above all, at the young man’s voice and pronunciation, Margaret trembled.

“Are you Monsieur Goefle’s son?” she said, eagerly. “Oh, it is singular how much you resemble him!”

“There would be nothing singular in such near relatives looking alike,” replied the professor, “but this gentleman can only be Goefle’s nephew. Goefle never married, and consequently he has no children, any more than myself.”

“That would be no reason,” Cristiano whispered in the professor’s ear.

“To be sure; you are right!” replied the latter in the same tone, and with the most incredible simplicity; “I did not think of that! That devil of a Goefle! You are his son, then, by a left-handed marriage?”

“Brought up in a foreign country, and just arrived in Sweden,” replied Cristiano, astonished at the success of his impromptu suggestions.

“Well, well!” replied the professor, who cared very little about other people’s affairs. “I understand; it is quite plain--you are his nephew.”

He turned to Margaret.

“I know this gentleman perfectly well,” he said; “he is the nephew of my excellent friend Monsieur Goefle, and I have the honor to present him to you. You don’t know M. Goefle, but you said this morning that you would like to become acquainted with him.”

“And so I should,” cried Margaret.

She blushed as she spoke, for at that very moment she met Cristiano’s eyes, and their vivacity reminded her of those of the false Goefle. From time to time the young man, with an involuntary movement, had raised the doctor’s green spectacles, so as to see better, and Margaret had noticed how brilliantly his eyes flashed between the ear-pieces of his fur cap.

“But how is it,” resumed the professor, addressing the young girl without observing her confusion, “that you are not dancing? I thought you would be the queen of the evening, and that no one would have a chance to speak to you.”

“Well, my dear lover, you are mistaken. I am not going to dance. I sprained my foot coming down stairs. Don’t you see how lame I am?”

“No, I can’t say that I do. You want to resemble me, do you? Tell M. Goefle how it was that I became lame; it was a terrible affair, and would have been the death of any one else. Yes, monsieur, you see before you a victim of science.”

Without giving Margaret time to speak, he began to relate, with great animation, how the rope had broken as he had been descending into a mine, and how he had fallen with the basket into the bottom of the abyss, a distance of fifty feet, seven inches, and five lines. For six hours, fifty-three minutes, and how many seconds we are not prepared to state, he lay in a swoon, and for two months, four days, and three hours and a half, had not been able to move. With the same exasperating accuracy he specified the exact size of the plasters that had been applied to his various wounds, and the quantity, by drachms, grains, and scruples, of the different drugs that he had absorbed, whether in doses taken internally, or by means of external applications rubbed into his skin.

It was a long story, although the old man spoke rapidly, and did not repeat himself. His memory was a real scourge; it would not allow him to omit the least circumstance; and when he was talking of himself, it never occurred to him that any one could be tired of listening.

Margaret, who knew the story by heart, could not be very attentive, and talked aside with Mademoiselle Potin for a few moments. The result of this short conference, which Cristiano did not fail to notice, was soon evident; good Mademoiselle Potin seized the moment when the professor had finished his story, and before he could embark in another, which he was all ready to do, begged him, with hypocritical frankness, to explain a paragraph in his last work, which she pretended she had not been able to understand.

Cristiano could not help admiring woman’s natural tact, when he saw how eagerly the professor entered into a discussion with the governess, while Margaret’s eyes said clearly to the young man:

“I am dying to speak to you.”

He did not wait to be told twice, but followed her to the other extremity of the little semicircle, where she seated herself upon a sofa, while he stood before her in a respectful attitude, outside the embrasure, in such a way as to shield her from observation.

“Monsieur Christian Goefle,” she said, looking at him again with the greatest attention, “you are surprisingly like your uncle!”

“I have often been told so, mademoiselle; it seems that it is a striking likeness.”

“I have never seen him well; indeed, I may say that I have never seen his face at all; but his accent, his pronunciation--yours are absolutely the same.”

“I should have supposed that my voice would be rather younger than his,” replied Cristiano, who had taken pains at Stollborg to speak, every now and then, like an old man.

“Yes, no doubt,” said the young girl; “there is the difference of age, although your uncle still has a very fine organ. After all, he cannot be so very old! He seemed to me much younger than people say. He has magnificent eyes, and is almost of your height.”

“Just about the same,” said Cristiano, giving an involuntary glance at the doctor of law’s suit of clothes, and asking himself whether Margaret was speaking ironically, or questioning him in good faith.

He resolved to bring about an explanation.

“There is another point of resemblance between my uncle and myself,” he said, “and that is the deep interest that we feel in a person of your acquaintance, and the desire with which we both are animated to be of service to her.”

“Ah! ah!” said the young girl, blushing with an air of frankness that dissipated Cristiano’s anxiety; “I see that your uncle has been gossiping, and that he has told you about my visit this evening.”

“I don’t know whether you confided any secret to him; in what he repeated to me there was no mystery at which you need blush.”

“Repeated?--repeated? I believe you were there, in some room or closet close by; you heard everything.”

“It was so, I confess,” replied Cristiano, who saw that she would confide in him more quickly if he took advantage of her innocent suggestion. “I was in my uncle’s bed-room, arranging his papers. Without his knowledge, and in spite of myself, I heard everything.”

“That is very pleasant, upon my word!” said Margaret, somewhat confused, and yet pleased without knowing why; “instead of one confidante it seems that I had two.”

“Your confession seemed to be that of an angel; but I am beginning to be afraid that it was in reality that of a demon.”

“Thanks for your good opinion. Will you tell me what has caused it?”

“A strange insincerity that I cannot explain. You described Baron Olaus as a monster, physically and morally--”

“Excuse me, monsieur; you did not understand me. I called him disagreeable, terrible; I never said that he was ugly.”

“And yet you might have said so truthfully; for to speak plainly, he is abominably ugly.”

“It is true that his hard and cold expression makes him seem so; but every one agrees that he has very fine features.”

“The people of this country have a singular standard; but there is no disputing about tastes! I do not agree with them. He seems to me ugly and deformed, but comical and good-humored.”

“You are certainly joking, M. Christian Goefle, or we do not understand each other. God forgive me, you are looking at the person opposite. Is it possible that you have mistaken him for the Baron de Waldemora?”

“How can I help supposing that the person who calls you his fiancée, and whom you gayly call your lover, is the baron?”

Margaret burst out laughing.

“Oh! dear me,” she cried, “if you have really imagined that I could treat Baron Olaus with such friendly familiarity, you must have thought me very deceitful or very inconsistent; but, thank God, I am neither the one nor the other. The individual whom I call jestingly my lover, is a person of no less consequence than the doctor of sciences, Monsieur Stangstadius, of whom you must have heard your uncle speak.”

“Doctor Stangstadius,” replied Cristiano, feeling very much relieved; “I must confess that I do not know him, even by name. I have just arrived from a distant country, where I have always lived.”

“I can understand, then,” replied Margaret, “how it is that you have not heard of our learned mineralogist. Your opinion of him is very correct. He is an excellent man, sometimes a little violent, but never malicious. And then he is simple as a child! There are certain days when he imagines that my _passion_ for him, as he calls it, is serious, and when he tries to break the chain, assuring me that a great man like himself belongs to the universe, and cannot devote himself to a woman. I have known him for a long time; ever since he came to the chateau where I was brought up, for the purpose of making investigations on our estates. He passed several weeks with us, and, since then, my aunt has allowed him to visit me whenever his business brings him to our province. He was my only acquaintance here when I arrived, for you must know that Baron Olaus has made him superintendent of important mining operations on his domain. But there is my aunt looking for me! Now I shall have a good scolding, you will see!”

“Do you want to avoid her? Pass between the wall and this hunting trophy.”

“Potin would have to go too, and we could never persuade M. Stangstadius to keep our secret. Oh dear! now my aunt will torment me to death to dance with the baron, but I shall persist in being lame, though the pain is so slight that I scarcely feel it.”

“It is nothing at all, I hope.”

“Yes, indeed. I was so fortunate as to fall down on the staircase a little while ago, in my aunt’s presence. My ankle really did hurt me a little, and I looked dreadfully woe-begone, to prove that I could not possibly open the court dance with the master of the house. My aunt had to take my place, and that is why I am here; but the dance is over, and here she comes!”

In fact, Countess Elfride d’Elveda approached, and Cristiano, who had taken a seat by Margaret’s side, drew back a little.

The countess was a small woman, fair, fat, lively and resolute. She was scarcely thirty-five years old, and was very coquettish, although less from gallantry than a love of intrigue.

She was one of the most ardent _caps_ in Sweden; that is, she took sides with Russia against France, whose partisans were called _hats_; and with the nobility and Lutheran clergy against the king, who naturally sought his support in the other orders of the state, the citizens and peasants.

She had been pretty, and, what with her wit and rank, was still sufficiently so to make conquests; but there was something in her manner, by turns haughty and familiar, that displeased Cristiano. Her evident duplicity and obstinacy, which he read at a glance, did not seem to him to promise well for Margaret’s future.

“Well,” she said to the latter, sharply and briefly, “what are you doing here crouched up against this stove, as if you were frozen? Come, I want to speak to you!”

“Yes, aunt,” replied Margaret, pretending, with innocent hypocrisy, to rise with difficulty; “but the fact is that I am suffering very much with my foot. Being unable to dance, I felt cold in the large saloon.”

“Whom were you talking to?” inquired the countess, looking at Cristiano, who had gone up to M. Stangstadius.

“The nephew of your friend M. Goefle, whom Monsieur Stangstadius just presented to me. Shall I introduce him to you, aunt?”

Cristiano, who was not listening to the professor, heard perfectly well what Margaret said. Resolved to risk everything to continue his acquaintance with the niece, he came forward of his own accord, and bowed to the aunt in such a respectful and graceful manner, that she was struck by his fine appearance. She must have been very much in need of M. Goefle, for, in spite of Cristiano’s plebeian name, she received him as courteously as if he had belonged to one of the best families in the country; and when Monsieur Stangstadius declared that he was a young man of great merit, became excessively condescending.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said, “and I am angry with M. Goefle for never speaking to me about a nephew who does him honor. Are you a devotee of science, like our distinguished friend Stangstadius? I am glad to hear it. There is no finer career that a young man can choose. No position is more agreeable than that of the scientific man, for he is not obliged to make sacrifices to obtain consideration.”

“I see that it is so in Sweden,” replied Cristiano, “and it is an honor to this noble country. In Italy, where I was brought up, and even in France, which was my home for some time, it is very different; there, learned men are generally poor, and poorly encouraged, when they are not persecuted by religious fanaticism.”

This reply enraptured the geologist, who was very vain of his country, and was extremely pleasing to the countess, who despised France.

“You are right,” she said, “and I do not understand why your uncle should not have had you educated in your own country, where the position of students is so fortunate and honorable.”

“He wished me to speak the foreign languages with facility,” replied Cristiano, saying the first thing that occurred to him, “but he need not have sent me so far upon that account; for you speak French here, I find, as well as they do in France.”

“We are much obliged to you for your politeness,” said the countess, “but you are flattering us. We do not speak it as well as you do, probably, and our Italian is still worse--although every one who is carefully educated studies it. You must talk Italian with my niece, and, if she makes mistakes, laugh at her well. But why is M. Goefle so anxious about the modern languages? Does he intend you for a diplomat?”

“Perhaps, madame; I am not yet fully aware of his intentions.”

“Fie! Fie! Pooh!” cried the geologist.

“Softly, dear professor,” resumed the countess; “there is a great deal to be said on that side too. All careers are desirable for those who know how to make them so.”

“If you, madame, will condescend to advise me, I shall esteem it a privilege to be indebted to you for a valuable suggestion.”

“It will give me pleasure to do so,” she replied, with an affectation of genial amiability; “and I feel all the more interest in you, because you have all the qualities to insure success. Come with us to the dancing-hall. I want my niece to dance at least one minuet; it is not fatiguing, and she is very perverse to refuse. Do you hear, Margaret? You must do like every one else!”

“But, aunt,” said Margaret, “every one has not a sprained ankle.”

“In society, my child (I am saying this, Monsieur Goefle, for your benefit as well), you must never let anything prevent you from being agreeable or useful. Remember one thing: no one fails to fulfil his destiny but through his own fault. You must have a will of iron; you must be superior to cold and heat, hunger and thirst, great sufferings as well as little pains. The world is not, as young people imagine, a fairy palace, where you live for enjoyment. It is, on the contrary, a place of trial, where you will have to conquer all your wants, all your desires, all your repugnances, with real stoicism;--that is, if you have an aim in life, and if you have not you are a very weak person. Ask your _lover_, Margaret, whether he thinks of his little comforts when he descends into an abyss to seek that which is the aim of his life. Very well; under the domes of palaces, as well as in the caverns of mines, there are horrors to be braved. That of dancing with a slight pain in your ankle is a very little thing in comparison with what is before you. Come along; get up and come!”

Margaret could not help looking piteously at Cristiano, as much as to say:

“You see, I shall never be as strong as she is.”