Chapter IX: Front Matter (9)

“I have hardly tried to do so, as I did not feel any need of haste. I wanted, in the first place, to become acquainted with the scientific and artistic riches of the city, and then to study the physiognomy of the inhabitants as well as their tastes and customs. A stranger, without friends, finds it extremely easy to study the manners and prevailing sentiments of a people by haunting their places of public resort. This is the method I adopted, and my present purpose is to become familiar with the whole of Sweden, and then to put myself in communication with the leading men of science at Stockholm and Upsal, especially M. Linnæus. By that time I must receive the testimonials for which I have written to Paris, and, at any rate, shall perhaps have something of interest to submit to that illustrious man. I may find specimens in distant localities that he has overlooked, and be able to afford him pleasure by offering them to him. There is no journey in which useful discoveries, or useful observations upon matters already recorded, may not be made. When a young man visits a great master, he is bound to bring tribute from his studies or his explorations; otherwise he only occupies valuable time in the mere gratification of his own vanity or curiosity. You said something about the police: they let me entirely alone after one brisk examination, in which my answers were frank, and seemed quite satisfactory. The good people with whom I lodged, and who treated me as kindly as if I were one of their own family, readily guaranteed my good conduct, and kept from the public the little secret of my double individuality. So you see, Monsieur Goefle, that at present I am excellently situated, and may well feel in very good spirits, having command of my own movements, a sufficiently profitable occupation, the love of science, and all the world open before me!”

“But you lost your money in Lake Wetter--”

“Oh, but the lakes, Monsieur Goefle, are certainly inhabited by good spirits, with whom I am in relations, without knowing it. Am I not Christian _del Lago_? Either the troll of Lake Wetter will return me my purse when I am least expecting it, or he will see that it comes into the hands of some poor fisherman, who will have the good of it, so that it will be a capital arrangement any way.”

“But still,--have you any money in your pocket, my boy?”

“Absolutely nothing, Monsieur Goefle,” replied the young man, laughing. “I had exactly enough to get here, by pinching my own stomach a little, so as to allow my attendant and my ass all they wanted; but I am to receive thirty six dollars this evening for my performance; and after enjoying this capital breakfast in company with yourself and this excellent stove, and in sight of the splendid landscape all set with diamonds, that I see shining out yonder, through the smoke with which our pipes have filled the room, I feel myself the richest and most fortunate of men.”

“You are decidedly an original,” said M. Goefle, rising, and knocking the ashes from his pipe. “You are a singular mixture of the man and the child, the scientist and the adventurer. It even seems to me that you are extravagantly enjoying this last phase of your experience; and that instead of finding it disagreeable, you are making your assumed and rather exaggerated pride an excuse for protracting it.”

“Permit me, Monsieur Goefle,” answered Christian; “in the matter of pride there is no middle course; it must be everything or nothing. I have tried poverty, and I know how easy it is, in poverty, to become degraded. One who is left to depend entirely upon his own resources, must therefore accustom himself not to fear poverty; he must even know how to make it a source of amusement. I have told you how it distressed me to be poor in a great city. There, among temptations of every kind, such a position is very dangerous to a man who is young and vigorous, and who has known what it is to be carried away by passion. Here, on the contrary, on my travels, that is to say, at liberty, and protected by an incognito which will allow me to-morrow to assume a respectable position in society, I feel as gay as a school-boy in vacation; and I confess that I am in no haste to assume again the chains of constraint and the annoyances of conventionality.”

“After all, I understand it,” said the doctor. “My imagination is not duller than other people’s; and I can easily conceive that there is a romantic pleasure in such a wandering, careless life. Yet you are fond of society. It was not for the sake of investigating the frozen mountains at midnight that you borrowed my dress suit.”

At this moment the door opened, and Ulphilas, to whom M. Goefle had no doubt given orders, came to say that the horse and sleigh were ready. Ulph seemed quite sober.

“What!” cried the doctor with surprise, “what time is it? Noon? It is impossible! That old clock has gone crazy! But no,” he continued, looking at his watch, “it is noon, really; and I must go and consult with the baron over the great lawsuit, on account of which I have come here. It surprises me, by the way, since he knows I am here, that he should not have thought fit to send before now and inquire after me!”

“But his lordship, the baron, did send,” said Ulph; “did I not tell you, M. Goefle?”

“Not at all.”

“He sent an hour ago, to say that he was ill last night, or that he would have come himself--”

“Here? You exaggerate the baron’s politeness, my dear Ulph. The baron never comes to Stollborg!”

“Very seldom, Monsieur Goefle; but--”

“Well, well! And father Stenson--is there no way of seeing him? I must make the good old gentleman a little visit before I go over to the chateau. Is he as deaf as ever?”

“A great deal more so, Monsieur Goefle; he will not hear a single word you say.”

“Well, then, I will talk by signs.”

“But, Monsieur Goefle, the fact is my uncle don’t know you are here.”

“Ah, he doesn’t? Well, he will find it out.”

“He will scold me terribly for not having told him, and for having allowed you--”

“To do what? To lodge in this room, I suppose? Very well; tell him that I took possession without asking your permission.”

“Only imagine,” added M. Goefle, in French, to Christian, “that we are here unlawfully, and without the knowledge of M. Stenson, the overseer of the old chateau. And another very strange thing is, that the said Monsieur Sten, as well as his estimable nephew here present, are so convinced that the old ruin is haunted by unhappy and malevolent spirits, that they are very reluctant to live here at all.”

As he said this, M. Goefle’s smiling face became serious all at once, as if, though in the habit of laughing at such things, he really was reproaching himself for doing so; and he abruptly asked Christian if he believed in apparitions.

“Yes--in hallucinations,” replied Christian, without hesitation.

“Ah! Have you ever seen any, then?”

“Sometimes--in a fever, or under some powerful mental preoccupation. In the latter case they were not so distinct as in the fever, and I could see that it was an illusion; but the appearances made a sufficient impression upon me to trouble me a good deal.”

“Just so--exactly so!” cried M. Goefle. “Well, only imagine--but I’ll tell you this evening; there’s no time now. I must go, my friend; I shall go and see the baron. He will perhaps detain me to dinner--at two o’clock. But in any event I will return as soon as possible. Ah, by the way--will you do me a service during my absence?”

“Two--three, if you wish, Monsieur Goefle; what is it?”

“To take my valet-de-chambre up out of his bed.”

“To wake him, you mean?”

“No, no! To take him up, to put on his clothes, button his gaiters, put him into his breeches; they are very tight, and he is not strong enough--”

“Oh, I understand; some old servant--an old friend, ill, or infirm?”

“No, not exactly. Stay, here he is! What a miracle! He has dressed himself all alone! Very well done, Master Nils! Why, you are improving! Up at noon, and dressed yourself! Haven’t you fatigued yourself too much?”

“No, Monsieur Goefle,” said the child, with a triumphant air. “See, I have buttoned my gaiters nicely.”

“A little crooked; but it’s done, at any rate; and now I suppose you will go and rest yourself until night?”

“Oh no, Monsieur Goefle: I want something to eat; I am very hungry; it has kept me from sleeping well for an hour at least.”

“There,” said M. Goefle to Christian, “you see what manner of serving-man my housekeeper provided me with! At present, I shall leave him under your charge. Make him obey you, if you can; for my part, I have quite given up trying. Come, Ulph, go on; I’ll come after you. Well, what’s the matter? what is it?”

“They brought a letter for you a little while ago,” answered Ulphilas, whose ideas became more luminous in proportion as the sun ascended towards the zenith, “and I put it in my pocket, and had forgotten--”

“To give it to me? Too true! You see, Christian, how well you are waited upon at Stollborg.”

M. Goefle opened the letter, and read as follows, interrupting himself at every sentence to make comments in French:

“‘My dear advocate--’

“I know that handwriting! It’s the Countess Elveda! A great coquette. The Russian party in petticoats!

“‘Let me see you before any one else. I know the baron expects you at noon. Have the goodness to leave Stollborg a little early, and come to my room. I want to talk to you about some matters of importance--’

“Matters of importance! Some silly piece of wickedness, as black as charcoal, and consequently as plain to be seen as charcoal on snow! Faith, it’s too late! the time is past.”

“Certainly, the time is past,” observed Christian, “and what she wants to tell you is not worth the trouble of hearing.”

“Ah! ah! Then you know what it is?”

“Perfectly; I’ll tell you about it at once, and I’m not afraid that you will lend your influence to helping on a scheme as horrible as it is ridiculous. The countess wants to marry her pretty niece, Margaret, to the dead-and-alive old Baron Olaus.”

“Yes, I know that very well, and I have openly laughed at the idea. Marry such a beautiful May to such a pale December! One would have to be as much of a white-cap as the peak of Sylfiallet to think of such a thing!”

“Ah, I was sure you would feel so. Is it not abominable, Monsieur Goefle, to propose to sacrifice Margaret in such a way?--”

“Hallo! Margaret? Why, you and Margaret must be on very intimate terms?--”

“Very far from it. I have only seen her. She is charming.”

“She is so considered. But the countess--how the devil did you come to know her, and how did you learn about her private plans?”

“That is another story; I will tell you about it if you have time--”

“What? No, I have not; but here’s a postscript that I did not notice. I don’t understand it at all:

“‘I must compliment you upon your nephew’s fine figure and his wit.’

“My nephew! I have no nephew! Is the countess crazy?

“‘Nevertheless, his good manners failed him for once, and very reprehensibly. He really deserves to receive a severe reprimand from you for having been guilty of such rudeness! But I will talk it over with you, and try to make up for his foolishness--I almost wanted to say insolence.’

“Rudeness! Insolence! Monsieur my nephew seems to have been well occupied! But where the devil am I going to find the young gentleman, to give him his severe reprimand?”

“Oh, dear Monsieur Goefle!” said Christian, in a piteous tone, “you will not have to look very far. How is it you have not reflected that if I could obtain admission to the ball-room without my mask, last night, it cannot have been by the name of Christian Waldo?”

“I do not deny that! Then it was under the name of Goefle?”

“My invitation was in my pocket under that honorable name.”

“So, sir,” said M. Goefle, with severity, while his eyes sparkled with anger, “you don’t content yourself with carrying off other people’s toilet, from hair-powder down to shoe-soles inclusive, but you must also go so far as to take their names, and leave them to be responsible for the follies you may choose to commit. That is altogether beyond endurance!”

Here good-natured M. Goefle, in spite of himself, burst out laughing, at the absurd predicament of Christian Waldo. The handsome and passionate young man, who found it difficult to bear so direct a reproof, seemed tempted to make rather a sharp reply, and then his anger was increased by the conduct of the servants. On one side Ulph, perceiving from M. Goefle’s tone that he was angry, although he did not understand a word that he said, was unconsciously imitating his looks and gestures, while little Nils, quite as ignorant of the facts in question, placed himself opposite Christian, in a haughty and almost threatening attitude.

Provoked by these two absurd figures imitating and burlesquing M. Goefle, Christian was strongly tempted to knock down the man and kick the boy, but he knew perfectly well that he was in the wrong, and he was, moreover, much pained at having offended so kind and amiable a person as the doctor of laws. Indignation and repentance, therefore, were depicted alternately upon his expressive countenance, and with such vividness that the lawyer was quite disarmed. His laugh at once disarmed his two satellites, who began to laugh also with returning confidence, and went about their business, while Christian gave M. Goefle a brief account of his defiance of the baron, which the Countess Elveda called rude and insolent, but for which, in his opinion, he was not at all to blame. M. Goefle, pressed as he was for time, listened attentively, and when he had finished, said:

“Assuredly, my dear boy, you have done nothing to dishonor the name of Goefle; on the contrary, your conduct was that of a gentleman, but you have none the less placed me in a cruel embarrassment. Whether or not Baron Olaus remembers his epileptic attack--for which, it seems, he is indebted to you--he will not forget, you may rest assured, that you have offended him. As you have been told, he is a man who never forgets anything, and you will do well to disappear at once in your character of Goefle, since Goefle you have chosen to become. Do not quit this chamber without being masked; become Christian Waldo again, and you have nothing to fear.”

“But pray tell me what should I have to fear from the baron, even if I should present myself to him with my face uncovered? Is he actually capable of having me assassinated?”

“I know nothing about that, Christian; I swear to you, upon my honor, nothing at all; you may confidently believe me on this point. If, in my business relations with him, I had gathered the least proof of the acts he is charged with, those relations would be discontinued. I am very indifferent to lucrative patronage, and I should tell my client some very plain truths, whether it did him any good or not. Nevertheless, there are some reports so well authenticated, and there are so many cases where misfortunes have occurred to persons who have opposed the baron, that I have sometimes asked myself if he had not the evil eye--the _jettatura_, as you call it in Italy. At any rate, not to bring any unnecessary bad luck upon myself, please allow me to report that my nephew is absent; that he started this very morning on a distant journey.”

“You may rely upon my absolute prudence, since I have been the means of exposing you to a risk. I will not leave the room without being masked, or so disguised that no one shall recognize me for the rather too gallant and chivalrous stranger who danced at the ball last night.”

M. Goefle and Christian Waldo shook hands upon this agreement. Nils, whose services had been confined to eating his breakfast during the conversation, was now well wrapped up in furs by his master, who was obliged to lift him upon the driver’s seat of the sleigh, and to place the reins and whip in his hands. Once seated, however, he drove off like an arrow, and descended the steep slope of the rock with skill and confidence. To drive a horse was the one thing that he knew how to do, and did without murmuring.

As for Ulph, he proceeded to make up the bed in which Nils had slept, for Christian, and to prepare the sofa, which was quite large enough to be comfortable, for the child, as M. Goefle had directed before his departure. Then he went to wait upon his uncle, but always discreet in concealing his disobedience, he did not say a single word about the presence of visitors in the donjon.

VII.

THE reader has perhaps not forgotten that old Stenson lived in a pavilion at the end of the small second court, which, together with the outer enclosure, which was somewhat larger, and the buildings adjoining, composed the dilapidated manor of Stollborg. There was a legend connected with the original erection of this ancient castle. At the time of the first introduction of Christianity into Sweden, it was said to have grown out of the rock in one night, in consequence of a vow of the pagan castellan, whose house (then built of wood) had nearly been blown off into the lake by an autumnal gale, and who had thereupon promised to embrace the new religion, if heaven would protect him securely from the wind. The roof of the house had already been carried away, but scarcely had he pronounced his vow, when a granite tower arose, as if by enchantment, from the rock. The castellan was forthwith baptized, and no hurricane could ever again harm his strongly and solidly-built habitation.

Notwithstanding this veracious history, the antiquaries of the country have the hardihood to assert that the square tower of Stollborg dates no further back than to the reign of King Birger, that is to the fourteenth century. However that may be, the chateau and its small domain, in the fifteenth century, became the property of a brave gentleman of the name of Waldemora. In the seventeenth century, Olaf de Waldemora became a favorite of Queen Christina, who, by arbitrarily alienating portions of the crown domains, conferred upon him considerable landed estates in this part of Dalecarlia. History does not name this Waldemora as a lover of the fantastic inheritrix of Gustavus Adolphus. Possibly, in some strait for money, the queen may have sold him these valuable estates at a low price. It is certain that at the reduction of 1680, when the energetic Charles XI. revised the titles of all grants of land, and reunited to the crown domain all that had been unlawfully alienated by his predecessors--a terrible but salutary measure, to which Sweden owes the endowment of her universities, schools, and magistracy, the creation of the post-office, the army _indelta_, and other benefactions, for which the “old caps” had hardly forgiven the crown at the time of our story--at this time the titles of the Baron de Waldemora were found valid; he retained the great estates which he had inherited from his grandfather, and completed the embellishments of the new chateau, built by the latter upon the shore of the lake, and called by his name.

One tower was all that remained standing of the old family chateau. This tower appeared to be extremely lofty, in consequence of the great substructure of masonry built up to its base from the very edge of the water, but it was in fact but two stories high, and contained only the bear-room and the guard-room, which were on the ground-floor, almost on a level with the court, and two or three chambers above, where for twenty years, that is, ever since the door on the staircase had been built up, no person had entered. The rest of the manor had been rebuilt several times, and formed, what is called in Norway, a _gaard_; or, in other words, an assembly of several families living in a community. Dwelling-rooms, kitchens, dining-rooms, stables, and store-rooms, in such communities, instead of being brought together as much as possible under one roof, as is the common practice, form separate buildings, each with a roof of its own; so that altogether they present the aspect of a numerous group of small houses entirely distinct from each other. Many customs prevail equally in Sweden and Norway, especially along the mountainous frontier of Dalecarlia. At the period when Stollborg, deserted for the new chateau, became a mere farmstead, there were several _gaards_, similar to the one we have described, scattered through the country. As is commonly the case all over Sweden, and in all countries where they build in wood, these premises had often caught fire, and the more ancient of the little edifices still showed traces of it. Their charred ridge-poles and warped roofs were sharply defined, like black spectres, upon the white background of the mountain.

The court, surrounded by its mossy shed, which gave a unity--such as it was--to all these different buildings, and from whose eaves hung a glittering fringe of icy stalactites, thus presented the appearance of a group of abandoned Swiss chalets. The farm establishment had long ago been transferred elsewhere, and the whole manor had been left under the charge of Stenson, who no longer had any repairs made upon the worthless houses, which were now only used to store fodder and dry vegetables. The rough flags of the court were furrowed in all directions by a thousand irregular little hollows, ploughed by the violence of currents in thaws; not one of the doors was on its hinges, and it seemed as if, unless prevented by some vow as efficacious as that of the first castellan, the least gust of the winds of spring or fall would sweep the ruinous structures off into the lake.

The second court, which was in the rear of this one, was a modern addition, much less picturesque, but infinitely more comfortable. It had been built by the Baron Olaus de Waldemora at the time when he inherited the property of his brother Adelstan. He caused this second small _gaard_ to be erected for his faithful Stenson, so as to prevent the latter, who had a horror of the place, from going to live elsewhere. This addition consisted of another group of buildings, lower than the first, and upon the opposite slope of the rock. Their steep roofs rested at the back against the solid rock itself, and were constructed in the singular manner usual in that country, with a layer of pine logs well caulked with moss, covered with strips of birch-bark, over which is laid finally a bed of earth turfed on the top. This turf, on the roofs of rustic cottages in Sweden, is very carefully tended, as is well known, and is sometimes laid out like a garden with flowers and shrubs. The grass upon them is very thick and rich, and the cattle find it their choicest pasturage.

It was in this portion of the old manor, called especially the _gaard_, while the other was called the court, that Stenson had lived for twenty years. Of late, he had become so old and feeble that he hardly ever left his own house, which was well warmed, very neatly furnished, and painted on the outside of an iron-rust red. Here he was certainly very conveniently situated. His dwelling-rooms were separate from his nephew’s lodging, and he had a kitchen in one small edifice, and a dairy in another. This only served, however, to render the existence of the mysterious old man more monotonous and melancholy. It was observed, or at least it had been observed when the house was built, how careful he had been to have all the doors and windows looking away from the tower. The only communication between the two buildings was a small side-door, and to reach Stenson’s pavilion it was necessary to go through a narrow zigzag passage. It looked as if he had been afraid to have a door opening directly towards the tower, lest he should see it. But he may have barricaded himself in this way merely as a precaution against the west wind, which blew from that direction.

As if in confirmation of the reports current about him, it was extremely rare for Stenson to quit his house, unless to enjoy a little sunshine in the small orchard at the water’s edge. Even here he always turned his back to the tower as he walked, and when the declining sun threw the slender shadow of the weathercock upon his alleys, it was said that he would leave them and flee precipitately into his house, as if he were filled with horror and pain by this ill-omened shade. The free-thinkers of the new chateau--a major-domo and footmen of the modern sort--attributed his peculiarities to the excessive caution and timidity, carried almost to monomania, of a frail and sickly old man; but Ulphilas and his companions regarded them as the irrefragable proof that the gloomy old castle was haunted by evil spirits and frightful spectres. Never, for twenty years, they said, had Stenson crossed the court and entered the western gate. Whenever business called him to the new chateau, he went by way of the little orchard, at whose base his own boat used to lie in the summer.

The presence of the baron at the new chateau--his usual residence when he was not attending to his duties as a member of the Stendœrne, or Diet--made no changes in Stenson’s daily life; but still Ulphilas had for some days observed that his uncle was singularly agitated. He asked questions concerning the donjon, as if he was solicitous about the preservation of this accursed old giant. He inquired of Ulph whether he went there from time to time to ventilate the bear-room, at what hours his visits were made, and whether he had seen anything remarkable there. To-day, Ulph, not without remorse, but without hesitation, told him a lie; he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as a sign that he had seen nothing new. In fact, Ulph had strong reasons for hoping that Stenson, who was confined to his room by the cold, would not learn anything about what had happened; and he had heard the rattling of certain crowns intended for him, in the pocket of M. Goefle, without seeing any signs that the old vaults of Stollborg proposed to crumble with indignation for so small a matter. Without being greedy, Ulph did not dislike making a little money, and perhaps he was beginning to feel somewhat reconciled to the donjon.

After telling this direct falsehood, and serving his uncle’s second meal, he was going away, when the old man asked for a certain Bible which he seldom used, and which stood on a particular shelf of his library. Stenson directed him to place it before him on the table, and then motioned him to retire. Ulph, however, was curious to see what his uncle was about, and as he was very certain that he would not be heard, he came in again in a moment, and standing behind the old man’s chair, peeped over and saw him pass the knife at random between the leaves of the large book, and then open it, and look attentively at the verse where the point of the knife had stopped. Three times he tried this experiment; a practice half devout and half cabalistic, that prevails even among the Catholics of the north, for inquiring of the Almighty the secrets of the future, according to the interpretation of the words supposed to be indicated by destiny. When he had performed this ceremony, Stenson buried his face in his hands upon the closed book, as if to consult it with his brain, after having questioned it with his eyes; and Ulph went away, a good deal disquieted with the result of the experiment. He had read the three verses over his uncle’s head. They were these, in the order in which they had chanced to occur:

“Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.”

“Did I not weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the poor?”

“A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children; and the wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just.”

Detached verses from this mysterious and sublime book will generally adapt themselves to almost any meaning which the imagination is desirous of obtaining. Accordingly, old Sten, who had trembled at the first verse, and clasped his hands over the second, drew a long breath at the third, as if his oppressed soul was relieved. But Ulphilas, who had drank too much the night before to be a competent interpreter of the utterances of the sacred volume, asked himself with anguish whether the old Bible had not, under the form of some allegory too deep for his intelligence, disclosed to his uncle the secret of his falsehood.

He was aroused from his revery by the appearance of a new visitor in the court. This was Puffo, who had come to arrange for the evening’s performance with Christian. Puffo was not a demonstrative person; he did not like the country in winter, and he did not speak a word of Dalecarlian. But still he was in a very good humor just at the present moment, and for sufficient reasons. He bade Ulph good-day, in quite a friendly manner, while the latter was greatly surprised to see him enter the bear-room unceremoniously, as if he was quite at home there.

Puffo found Christian occupied in classifying the mineralogical specimens in his box.

“Well, master, what are you thinking of?” said he. “It’s no time now to be playing with those little pebbles; we must get ready for the piece this evening.”

“_Parbleu!_ I know that very well,” replied Christian; “but what could I do without you? It is high time for you to show yourself. Where the devil have you been since yesterday?”

Puffo informed him--but without making any excuses for his absence--that he had finally found a good supper and good bed at the farm, that he had slept late, and having made acquaintance with a servant from the chateau, who was there, had told whom it might concern of the arrival of Christian Waldo at Stollborg. After breakfast the major-domo of the new chateau had sent for him, had talked to him very pleasantly, and informed him that the exhibition of marionettes would be expected at eight precisely that evening. The major-domo had added:

“You will mention to your employer Christian, that his lordship wishes a very brilliant entertainment, and he begs him to be infinitely witty.”

“Excellent!” said Christian. “Plenty of wit, by order of his lordship the baron. Let him take care, lest I prove altogether too witty for him! But, Puffo, did you hear nothing about the baron’s illness?”

“Yes, he was ill last night, it appears,” replied the stroller, “but he has recovered. Perhaps he was only drunk, though the servants say he does not drink at all. But who’s going to believe that a man as rich as he is would cheat his stomach out of good liquor when he has it in his cellar?”

“I wager that you did not cheat yourself, Puffo, out of whatever came under your hand.”

“Faith,” said Puffo, “thanks to a servant who is in love with a little girl at the farm, and who invited me to eat at his table, I had some very decent brandy. It was corn brandy, rather rough, but it’s warming, and I slept capitally after it.”

“I am delighted at your windfall, Master Puffo; but we must go to work. Come, go at once and see that Jean has plenty to eat and drink, and then come back and receive your instructions. Hurry!”

Puffo went out, and Christian, not without a sigh, closed his box of minerals, and was opening that which contained the _burattini_, when the noise of sleigh-bells drew him to the window. It was not the doctor of laws returning so soon; it was the pretty blue and silver sleigh which had brought Margaret to Stollborg the evening before.

Must we confess it? Christian had forgotten the promise which that agreeable young lady had made to the apocryphal M. Goefle of repeating her visit next day. The truth is, that he had no longer considered this visit possible, on account of what had happened at the ball, and had consequently said nothing about it to M. Goefle. Perhaps he regarded the whole adventure as inevitably ended, and perhaps he even wished to have it so; for to what could it lead, unless he should attempt to abuse the inexperience of a child, and so secure her contempt and her curse?

In the meanwhile, the sleigh was approaching; it was now ascending the hill of Stollborg, and Christian could see the pretty head of the young countess, half hidden in her ermine hood. What was to be done? Would he be courageous enough to shut the door in her face, or to send her word by Puffo that the doctor was absent? Pshaw! Ulph would tell her so of his own accord! He had only to keep quiet, and the sleigh would return as it had come. Christian remained at the window, so as to watch it descend the hill, but it did not descend. The door opened, Margaret entered, and the young man had barely time to close hastily the open box where the marionettes were indiscreetly exhibiting their great noses and smiling mouths.

“What, monsieur!” cried the young girl, with an exclamation of surprise, “are you still here? I did not expect that. I hoped that you would be gone.”

“Did you meet no one in the court?” said Christian, who was, perhaps, not sorry to throw the blame of this circumstance upon destiny.

“I saw no one,” said Margaret; “and, as my visit is secret, I came in very quickly, so that no one should see me. But, once more, Monsieur Goefle, you ought not to be here. The baron must know, by this time, who it was who ventured to defy him. I give you my word that you ought to go away.”

“Go away! You say that very cruelly. But you remind me that I really have gone away already. Yes, yes, be satisfied; I have gone never to return. M. Goefle has intimated to me that he might be involved in my difficulties, and I have promised him to disappear. You find me in the very act of packing up.”

“Oh! Go on, then; do not let me detain you.”

“Are you in such great haste never to hear me spoken of again? Very well, imagine that your wish is accomplished; that I have already embarked for America at least, and am fleeing under full sail from my terrible enemy, while shedding a few tears at the memory of that first quadrille--the last, too, that I shall ever dance--”

“With me, not with others?”

“Who knows? The I who is speaking to you is a shade, a phantom, a mere reminiscence of what happened yesterday. The other I, about taking his departure, is the sport of the waves and of destiny. I care about him as much as I do for an inhabitant of the moon.”

“Good heavens! how gay you are, Monsieur Goefle! Do you know I am not so at all?”

“True,” said Christian, struck with Margaret’s sad expression; “I am ashamed to have spoken of myself, when I ought to have been expressing my anxiety about the consequences of the events of last evening. Will you be good enough to answer me, if I venture even now to make inquiries of you?”

“Oh, you are well entitled to do so, since chance has so fully informed you about my affairs already. My aunt reproved me severely last evening, and Mademoiselle Potin had orders to pack my trunks and take me back to Dalby to-day; but this morning everything is changed, and, after a private interview with the baron, who, she says, has quite recovered his health and good spirits, it was decided that I should remain, and should have nothing to do to-day, but to think about my toilet for this evening. By the way, have you heard that Christian Waldo is actually here? They say, indeed, that he is stopping at Stollborg. You must have met him, in that case. How is it--have you seen him?”

“Certainly.”

“Without his mask? Oh, how does he look? Has he really a death’s head?”

“Worse than that. He has a wooden head!”

“Oh no! You are joking.”

“Not in the least! To see him you would swear that his face had been whittled out of a block, with a dull knife. He looks like the ugliest of all his marionettes. Like this one, for instance!”

And Christian pointed to the grotesque physiognomy of a police officer that stuck out of the box, and which Margaret would probably have seen herself if she had not been so preoccupied.

“What, really!” said she, a little apprehensively. “And is that his conjuring-box? Does he occupy this room with you?”

“No; don’t be afraid, you will not see him. He has gone out, and he asked as a favor, of M. Goefle, to be allowed to leave his baggage here.”

“Poor fellow!” said Margaret, pensively; “and so he is as ugly as that! What stories people tell! Some persons who have seen him insist that he is handsome. And is he old?”

“Somewhere about forty-five. But what are you thinking about, and why are you so sad?”

“I don’t know--only I feel sad.”

“What--although you are to remain at the chateau, and see the marionettes this evening?”

“Ah! please, Monsieur Goefle, do not treat me quite so much like a child. Last night, at the ball, it is true that I was gay; I enjoyed myself and felt happy, because I thought I had once for all escaped from the baron. But to-day I see very well that my aunt has renewed her hopes, and I must meet again a man whom I shall always sincerely hate from this time forward. Did he not insult me in a cowardly manner yesterday? It is useless for my aunt to say that he was joking. One does not joke with a girl of my age as with a child. I have been trying to cure my wounded pride by persuading myself that he was delirious--that his nervous attack had already begun when he spoke so coarsely to me, and that is what my friends think also. But how do I know what will happen to-day, when I meet him? Whether he is ill-tempered or crazy, who will defend me if he insults me again? You will not be there, and nobody else will dare--”

“What! Nobody dare? But what sort of men have you around you then? And all those brave young fellows whom I saw last evening--”

“Yes, I believe they are brave. But they know nothing of me, and they may imagine I deserve such outrageous treatment from the baron. It is a poor recommendation for me to have been introduced into society by my aunt, since she has the reputation--although most surely it is undeserved--of sacrificing everything to political interests.”

“Poor Margaret!” exclaimed Christian, struck by the painful position of this lovely girl.

He was so evidently sincere, and without the least thought of offensive familiarity, that Margaret did not resent his taking her hand; and besides, he dropped it again immediately, as he thought of their relative positions.

“Well,” he said, “you must take some resolution or other, at any rate.”

“It is taken already. It is only the first step that costs. From this time I will affront the terrible Olaus whenever we meet; I will tell him what I think of him before all the world; I prefer to pass for a perfect demon of malice, rather than for the favorite of this Dalecarlian pasha. And, after all, I shall defend myself better alone; for, if you were present, I should be afraid of having you take my part at your own peril, and that would make me more acquiescent. But I will not forget any more for that, the good counsel you gave me, and the chivalrous way in which you repulsed that frightful baron. I do not know whether we shall ever see each other again, but wherever you are, you will always have my good wishes, and I will pray to God to make you happier than I am.”

Christian was extremely touched by the sincere and affectionate manner of this charming girl. He made no display of affected gallantry, but his expressions, and the very sound of his voice, revealed the deepest emotion.

“Kind Margaret!” he said, lifting her pretty hand to his lips. “I swear to you truly that I also will remember you. Ah! why am I not rich and noble? Perhaps then I should have power to help you, and most certainly I would do everything in the world to obtain the happiness of being able to do so. But I am nothing, so I can do nothing.”

“But I thank you just as much,” replied Margaret. “You seem to me like a brother that I have never known, whom God has sent to me for a moment in the hour of my distress. Let this short meeting be so considered, and we will say good-by, without despairing of the future.”

Margaret’s candor caused Christian to feel a sense of remorse. M. Goefle might return at any moment, and it would be impossible for the young countess, after having been so much struck with the similarity between the voices of the false uncle and false nephew, not to detect the entire absence of any such resemblance when she should see them together. Besides, it was certain that M. Goefle would not lend himself to any such deceit; and it pained Christian to think that Margaret would retain an unfavorable recollection of him. So he confessed the truth of his own accord, acknowledging that he had allowed himself, as he did not know her, to play a joke at her expense, by disguising himself in the doctor’s pelisse and cap, and pretending to be he. He added that he had deeply repented, upon discovering how angelic a nature it was that he had thus been trifling with. Margaret was a little displeased. She had had an instant’s revelation of the truth, when Christian’s voice first fell upon her ear at the ball; but his manner was so perfectly natural when he told her that he had heard everything from the next room, that she had dismissed all doubts from her mind.

“Ah!” she said, “how skilful you are in deceiving, and how easy it is to be duped by your explanations! I cannot be offended at your joke in itself, for I was guilty of an imprudence in coming here, and I was properly punished by a mystification. But what I am sorry for is that you should have carried on the deceit for so long, with so much assurance and such an appearance of candor.”

“Say with remorse, and a consciousness of guilt. One fault always occasions others, and--”

“And what? What more have you to confess?”

Christian had been on the very point of telling the whole truth. But he paused; for he remembered at that instant that at the name of Christian Waldo Margaret would fly, annoyed and indignant. He therefore resigned himself to a half sincerity: to the young countess he continued to be Christian Goefle. But this dissimulation, which would have merely amused him with any one else, became extremely irksome when he saw her limpid eyes fixed on him with an expression of fear and reproach.

“I only meant to play with her,” he said to himself, “as one child might with another; but now, in spite of all we could do, sentiment has intervened, and the more honorable and delicate it is, the more guilty I feel--”

He became sad in his turn, and Margaret perceived it.

“Come,” she said, with a smile all radiant with goodness, “let us not allow any regrets to spoil our romantic meeting. We are about to part, but we do so with our kind feelings towards each other unchanged. You have not abused my confidence by turning me into ridicule; on the contrary, you have helped me to rely upon myself, and to struggle against an unfortunate destiny. Instead of feeling hurt and ridiculous, I feel that I am standing more firmly on my poor feet than I was yesterday at this hour.”

“That is true, is it not?” said Christian, warmly; “and I call heaven to witness--”

“Go on,” said Margaret.

“I call heaven to witness,” he repeated, with enthusiasm, “that I have been influenced by no selfish motive in anything I have done; that my only thought has been to promote your happiness.”

“I know it is so, Christian,” exclaimed Margaret, rising, and holding out her hand to him; “I know well that in me you have only beheld your poor sister in the sight of God. I thank you for it; and now I must say farewell, for your uncle will be coming back. He does not know me, and it will be quite useless to tell him that I have been here. But you may tell him whatever else you think proper. I am very sure that he will not work against me, and that he is as honorable and generous as yourself.”

“But still,” said Christian, who saw with regret the end of his romantic adventure rapidly approaching, “you came to say something to him. Perhaps he ought to know it.”

“I came to ask him,” said Margaret, with a little hesitation, “to tell me plainly what my aunt’s intentions were in case of an open revolt upon my part. But that again was an act of cowardice, I do not require to know. Let her banish me, isolate me, imprison me, strike me--what does it matter? I will not yield, I promise you. I swear to you, I will never marry any man whom I cannot--esteem.”

Margaret dared not say love, and Christian was just as powerless to utter that word, but their eyes said it, and their cheeks glowed with a sympathetic blush. After conversing confidentially for an hour, their souls, in that brief glance, spoke to each other, and acknowledged their inward emotion, and yet neither of them was conscious of the fact; Margaret, because she did not know that she loved, and Christian, because he felt certain that he did not. And yet, when Margaret had stepped into her sleigh again, and when Christian could see her no longer, they were both conscious of a sudden pain, as if their hearts had been rent asunder. Tears, that she did not feel, coursed slowly down the young girl’s cheeks; while Christian, buried in confused reveries, sighed as deeply as if he had awakened from a dream of sunshine to find himself once more in the frigid winter. In order to watch the sleigh the longer, he went back to the bear-room, and stepped between the two sashes of the window, when a rustling behind him made him turn round, and he beheld a sight that filled him with amazement.

An old man, thin and pale, but with noble features, and carefully dressed in a gray suit of ancient fashion, was standing erect in the midst of the chamber, with a green branch in his hand. Christian had not heard him enter, and the figure, illumined by the declining sun, which, as it neared the west, was sending a red and dusty beam of light through the one long window of the sombre room, seemed a fantastic vision. His expression, moreover, was as singular as his unexpected presence. He seemed undecided; astonished, as it were, to find himself in that place; and his small, glassy eyes inspected with amazement the changes which the new guests had made in the previous melancholy arrangements of the room. A moment’s reflection satisfied Christian that this strange apparition, instead of being a spectre, was probably old Stenson, come to wait upon M. Goefle and surprised at not finding him. But what was the meaning of that green branch, and why that timid and disappointed look?

It was, in fact, old Stenson; and his sight being as good as his hearing was poor, he had quickly noticed that the fire was burning, the table set, and the clock going. He did not move quickly, however, and Christian had time to draw back behind the folds of an old curtain, nibbled almost to a fringe by the mice, before the old man’s eye had reached the open window. From this hiding-place he could watch him without being seen. Stenson’s idea was that his nephew, of whose drunken habits he was aware, had, without notifying him, invited some of his boon companions to a Christmas revel in the bear-room. The height of his indignation no one but himself could have expressed. His first care was to put out of sight the traces of such scandalous disorder. He began by scattering all the live coals in the stove, so that the fire should go out of itself; and then, before either clearing off the table, or going to send the delinquent to do it, he stopped the pendulum of the clock, and put the hands back to four o’clock, where it had stood before the profane hand of Christian had set it going. Next, he turned and looked up, as if to count the candles in the chandelier, but the sun shone in his eyes, and he stepped forward to the window, probably to shut it.

At this moment, Christian, seeing that he was about to be discovered, came forward. But at this apparition, standing in a nimbus of the rays of the setting sun, Stenson, who was probably not the least superstitious member of his family, recoiled to the middle of the floor under the chandelier, with a countenance of such anguish, that Christian, forgetting the old man’s deafness, spoke to him kindly and respectfully, with the intention of reassuring him. But his voice was lost without awakening an echo, in the large and fast chilling room. Stenson fell on his knees before him, stretching out his arms as if to implore his protection or to bless him, and holding out, with a tremulousness that was almost convulsive, the cypress-bough, as one offers a votive palm-bough to some divinity.

“Why, my good man,” said Christian, raising his voice, and coming nearer, “I am not God, nor even the Christmas angel that comes in at the window or down the chimney. Get up! I am--”

But he stopped short, for a livid pallor overspread the old man’s face, which was already so wan. He perceived that his appearance had thrown Stenson into mortal terror, and drew back to allow him to recover himself. This the old man did in a measure, but only sufficiently to think of escaping. He dragged himself along for a few instants, and then rising up with difficulty, fled through the sleeping chamber, murmuring, as he went, disconnected words, without any distinguishable meaning. Christian, who supposed that he was suffering from some attack of mental disorder, brought on by old age or excessive religious devotion, refrained from following him, for fear of making him worse. There was a small slip of parchment fastened to the branch which the old man had let fall at his feet, and picking it up, he read the following three verses of the Bible, written upon it in a reasonably firm hand:

“Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.”

“Did I not weep for him who was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for the poor?”

“A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children, and the wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just.”