Part 25

“Well, well! Who can say that I am not shrinking from the pursuit of the real truth? Shall I be a mere cowardly courtier of this problematical being? Is it not my duty to satisfy myself once for all? Shall I let it be said that an adventurer--let me rather say a good and handsome child of fortune, who most surely deserves a better fate--that he, in his heedless career, is courageous enough to defy a powerful enemy, while I, dedicated by my very office to the service of the truth, the appointed defender of human and divine justice, allow myself to be lulled to sleep by a selfish indolence, not far removed from cowardice? Christian,” added M. Goefle, resuming his seat, but still with much excitement of manner, “go on to the second act! Let us make a terrible thing of it! Let your marionettes cover themselves with glory! They shall be real persons, living beings, instruments of destiny, like the players in the tragedy of Hamlet, who terrify and make pale the triumphant criminal, who is finally unmasked. Come, to work! Suppose--suppose all the crimes which are charged against the baron; that he poisoned his father, assassinated his brother, and starved his sister-in-law to death.”

“Precisely; in this room, too!” said Christian, who was thinking of the scenery for his third act. “What a capital scene it will make! We must make the child--the son of the duchess, of course--come back at the end of twenty-five years, to search out the truth and punish the murderer! We can make the marionettes break down the mysterious wall, and discover there--behind that brick-work--I could very quickly get up the scenery for that, I should have time enough--”

“Discover what?” asked M. Goefle.

“I don’t know,” replied Christian, suddenly becoming thoughtful, and even gloomy. “The ideas that occur to me are so terrible, that I must give up that part of the plot; it takes away all my inspiration; and, instead of continuing the piece, I should have to go and break down that wall myself, out of a mere rage of curiosity--”

“Come, come, friend Christian, don’t go crazy! It is quite enough if I am so; this whole thing is nothing but imagination, and I cannot conscientiously attach weight to suspicions which perhaps originate only in an overworked stomach, or a brain restless from inaction. Come, finish the piece, and let it be inoffensive if it is to be amusing. For my part, I must do a little work for myself; I have a portfolio of papers to examine that Stenson gave me, and I must prepare a definite opinion upon them, for I promised the baron this morning to have it ready, and he may send for it at any moment.”

Christian accordingly set to work at his drama, and M. Goefle at his parcel of papers, each at the end of a long table, to the middle of which they had pushed the breakfast dishes. Ulphilas now entered, and silently began to rearrange the table. He was in his usual state of half-conscious drunkenness, and shortly he entered upon a long discussion with M. Goefle, which Christian neither understood nor heard, as to the merits of a certain soup of milk, beer and syrup, a national dish, which M. Goefle wanted for supper, and which Ulphilas claimed to prepare as skilfully as any man in Sweden. By the promise of this delicacy he disarmed the anger of the lawyer, who had scolded him for getting his little valet tipsy. Ulphilas, besides, swore he did not know what M. Goefle meant, and perhaps in good faith, considering the steady coolness with which he himself carried all kinds of liquors.

By six o’clock, Christian had completed his task, while M. Goefle, who seemed restless and agitated, was still at work. As Christian happened to look towards him, he noticed the fixed and abstracted expression of his eyes. Supposing that this might be the lawyer’s usual appearance while at his work, he abstained for a time from interrupting him, but finally thought it necessary to ask, which he did a little uneasily, if he would not read the outline of the piece.

“Yes, certainly,” said M. Goefle; “but why not read it over to me?”

“Impossible, M. Goefle. I must select my actors, arrange their costumes in some sort of harmony, collect my scenes, load my ass, and hurry over to the new chateau, so as to take possession of the quarters intended for us, set up the theatre, arrange the lights, etc. I have not a moment to lose; we must begin at eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock? The devil! What a detestable hour! They don’t have supper at the chateau until ten o’clock, and pray when shall we have our supper?”

“Oh, to be sure! The fifth meal of the day!” cried Christian, in despair, but rapidly continuing his preparations. “For heaven’s sake, M. Goefle, have your supper now, and be ready an hour from this time! You can read over the piece while you are eating.”

“Oh, of course! A fine regimen you propose! To eat without an appetite, and to read in the meanwhile, so as to make it impossible for me to digest my food.”

“Very well; then let us think no more about it! I’ll try to get along by myself. I’ll do my best! Pshaw! Some good angel or other will come to my rescue.”

“No, no!” cried M. Goefle; “by no means! I’ll be the good angel. I promised you; and I’m a man of my word.”

“No, M. Goefle; I thank you, however, all the same. You are not used to the business. It will not suit a reasonable man like you to interrupt your important business to put a fool’s cap on your head! It was indiscreet in me to think of such a thing.”

“What!” exclaimed M. Goefle. “Pray what do you take me for? A mere babbler, who makes promises that he knows he can’t keep; or an old pedant, who don’t know enough to talk good nonsense?”

Christian saw that the best way to keep the lawyer up to the enterprise was to oppose him, and that the worthy gentleman was really very much in earnest in his scheme of transforming himself into a merry-andrew, without any more preparation than Christian himself required. He continued, therefore, to maintain his show of reluctance as to accepting his services, and did not leave him until he was almost vexed at Christian’s doubts, besides being fully resolved, and, indeed, all on fire to fulfil his engagement; even although he should have to eat his milk-and-beer soup without an appetite, and no matter how tremendous the violation of all his customary habits.

Christian had proceeded half way from Stollborg to Waldemora, when he suddenly found himself face to face with a sort of black phantom, speeding over the ice with uneven leaps. It required but a moment’s thought to recognize M. Stangstadius, who, like himself, was carrying a small dark lantern, and who was evidently preparing to accost him. Feeling very confident that he would not be recognized by a person so oblivious of others, he thought it unnecessary to put down his mask, or to change his voice in answering him.

“Hallo, my friend!” called out the man of science, without even condescending to look at him; “do you come from Stollborg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see Dr. Goefle there?”

“No, monsieur,” replied Christian, who saw at once how dangerous to his colleague’s good resolutions the professor’s visit might prove.

“What!” said Stangstadius; “Dr. Goefle not at Stollborg? He told me he was lodging there.”

“He was,” said Christian, with great coolness, “but he left for Stockholm two hours ago.”

“Left? Left without waiting for my visit, when I told him this very morning that I would come and take supper with him at the old tower? It’s impossible.”

“He must have forgotten it.”

“Forgotten! Forgotten that _I_ was coming to see him. That’s a likely story, indeed!”

“Well, sir,” said Christian, “you can go over there if you choose. You will find neither supper nor company.”

“Well, then, I must give it up. But it’s the most extraordinary thing. That poor Goefle must have gone crazy!”

Turning about, M. Stangstadius walked along by the side of Christian, who continued on towards the chateau; but in a few seconds the philosopher, on reflection, changed his purpose, and, talking aloud to himself after his fashion, said:

“So, Goefle has gone off! Well, he’s a scatter-brained, extravagant fellow. But there’s that nephew of his--for he has a nephew--a charming young man and a capital talker. He must have told him that I was coming, and he no doubt is waiting for me. I must go over; certainly I must!”

Stopping abruptly, he turned to Christian:

“See here, friend,” he cried, “I have made up my mind to go to Stollborg after all, and as I have been walking a great deal to-day in the snow, I am extremely tired. Lend me your pony, will you?”

“It would give me great pleasure to do so, monsieur; but if you are proposing to go there after M. Goefle’s nephew--”

“Certainly, yes; Christian Goefle, that’s his name. Did you see him? You are one of the servants at Stollborg, I suppose. Very well, go back there with me. Give me the beast, walk on ahead, and tell them to prepare supper. That’s a good idea.”

Thereupon M. Stangstadius, without troubling himself to wait for leave from Christian, undertook to mount Jean, whom he persisted in taking for a horse, and whose small stature and quiet pace had impressed him very favorably. As to his load, he paid no sort of attention to that, although it was very effectually in his way.

“Let the beast alone, will you!” said Christian, annoyed at his obstinacy. “M. Goefle’s nephew went away with his uncle, and Stollborg is shut up like a prison.”

“The young man gone too!” cried Stangstadius, in the greatest amazement. “_Mon Dieu!_ some great misfortune must have happened in that family, or both uncle and nephew would never have forgotten my promise. But they must, anyhow, have left a letter for me, and I’ll go and get it.”

“They did not leave any letter,” said Christian, bethinking him of a new expedient; “they directed me to say to some person of the name of Stangstadius at the new chateau that they had been obliged to go away. That is why I am going to the new chateau.”

“Person of the name of Stangstadius!” cried the insulted philosopher; “is that what they said?”

“No, monsieur; that is what I said. I don’t know this M. Stangstadius, myself.”

“Ah, you said it, did you, you idiot? Person of the name of Stangstadius, indeed! Don’t know him yourself, you great beast! Good, by George! I like that! Very well, learn to know me, then. I am the first naturalist--But what’s the use? Such monstrous ignoramuses as one finds on this poor earth! Stop your horse, you animal! Did I not tell you I wanted to ride? I’m tired, I say. Do you suppose I don’t know how to manage any kind of beast whatever?”

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

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

“Impossible. I can’t spare the time.”

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

“To whom? The Baron de Waldemora?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a threat, Christian?”

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

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

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

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

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