Part 26

“Very good,” said Christian, half in disgust and half in pity; “now get up and go. I pardon you, but never voluntarily cross my path again; and if we chance to meet, no matter where, don’t venture to speak to me. For me, you are dead. Out with you, lackey! This room is mine for two or three hours.”

“Christian,” cried Guido, rising, and speaking with a vehemence affected or sincere, as the case may be, “hear me for only five minutes.”

“No.”

“Christian, listen to me!” persisted the bandit, stepping before the door of the staircase, which Christian was about to throw open; “I have something of importance to tell you--something upon which your fortune and your life depend.”

“My fortune,” said Christian, laughing contemptuously, “went into your pocket, you thief! It was so little that I don’t care much about it, either way. And as to my life, try and take it, if you think best.”

“It has been in my hands, Christian,” said Guido, who, as soon as he was assured of his enemy’s generosity, had recovered all his assurance; “possibly it may be so again. You had outraged me, and I was strongly tempted by opportunity to revenge myself; but I could not forget that I had once loved you; and even now, in spite of your additional insults, it only depends upon you to have me love you as much as ever.”

“Many thanks,” replied Christian, shrugging his shoulders; “come, away with you! I have no time to listen to your pathetic drivelling; I have known it by heart this long time.”

“I’m not so guilty as you think, Christian. When I robbed you in the Carpathians it was out of my power to do otherwise.”

“That is just what everybody says who has surrendered himself to the devil.”

“I had surrendered myself to the devil, it is very true, for I was the chief of a band of robbers. My comrades had marked you out for a victim; their eyes were upon us, and, if I had not taken good care to drug you, so as to prevent a useless resistance, they would have killed you.”

“Then I am under obligations to you. Is that what you are driving at?”

“That is it, exactly. I am now in a fair way to make my fortune. Even to-morrow I shall be in a position to restore all that I took from you--forced to do so by men whom I could not control as I wished. A few days later they robbed me myself, and left me in exactly the same case in which you were left.”

“They did quite right. You richly deserved it.”

“Christian, do you remember the amount that was taken from you?”

“Perfectly.”

“And shall you be at Stollborg to-morrow?”

“I don’t know. It does not concern you, either.”

“As you please. But to-morrow I shall bring you the money.”

“Spare yourself the trouble. I am at home at Stollborg, and _I do not receive_.”

“But yet--”

“Silence! I have heard you long enough.”

“But if I bring you the money--”

“The same sum that you took from me? No, I presume not! You drank that out a long time ago. Well, then, as the money you speak of can’t be the same, and as it must be the proceeds of some theft, or of something worse, if possible, I don’t want it. Please to take that for granted, and don’t trouble yourself with any more talk about restitution. I am not fool enough to believe you, and if I did, I should promise you just as faithfully as I now do, to throw the price of your vile exploits into your face.”

Christian was on the point of thrusting Guido out, but the latter yielded at last, and went. The exhibitor was about to close the door again, when M. Goefle, all covered up in furs, appeared, ascending the stairs, manuscript in hand. The lawyer had either eaten very quickly, or not at all; he had devoured the play, which he rapidly mastered, and, fearing that he would not have time enough to rehearse, had hurried over from Stollborg on foot, by the light of the stars. He had concealed his face and disguised his voice, in order to inquire for Christian Waldo’s room; and, in short, had used all the precautions of a young lover stealing to a mysterious rendezvous. His head, for the present, was full of nothing but the burattini; he had forgotten the mysteries of Stollborg as completely as if he had never troubled himself on the subject. However, as he was running lightly up the stairs, he found himself, for the second time that day, obliged to pass a man of evil countenance, who was rapidly descending. This second meeting brought back to his mind the strange fancies in which he had been indulging about Baron Olaus, Stenson, and the deceased Hilda.

“Stay,” he said to Christian, who gayly congratulated him on his zeal; “look at that man who just passed me, and who is now going along the corridor below. Did he come from this room? Is he a servant of the baron’s? Do you know him?”

“I know him a great deal too well, and I was just under the necessity of telling him my opinion of him,” said Christian. “That man--whether a servant or not--is the very Guido Massarelli whose adventures I told you something about this morning, in relating my story.”

“You don’t say so! Well, that is a strange encounter, on my word!” cried M. Goefle; “and it may, perhaps, give you some trouble. You are enemies, and, if you have treated him as he deserves, he will injure you as much as possible.”

“How can he injure me? He is such a coward! I made him go down on his knees to me.”

“In that case--well, I don’t know what he will do, but it is a fact that he has discovered some important secret.”

“A secret concerning me?”

“No,” said M. Goefle, who was on the point of speaking freely, when he remembered his resolution not to reveal anything relating to Stenson; “but, at any rate, you are hiding Christian Goffredi under the mask of Christian Waldo, and he will betray you.”

“What if he does? I have not dishonored the name of Goffredi, and I hope the time will come when my singular adventures will redound to my honor, rather than to my discredit. Pray what have I to fear from any one’s opinion? Am I either idle or debauched? I despise all the Massarellis in the world! Have I not already made even a chivalric reputation in Sweden and elsewhere, under my buffoon’s mask? More good actions are attributed to me, indeed, than I have performed, and I have become a sort of hero of romance. Was I not last night the Prince Royal of Sweden? And if this reputation of mine should become too fantastic, cannot I change my name whenever I shall think proper, and adopt a serious profession? It is important upon your account (and that is the only reason I give it a thought, M. Goefle) to prevent your pretended nephew, who attended the ball last night, from being recognized under the mask of Christian Waldo; but this is the only thing we need trouble ourselves about. Now Massarelli was not here last night, I am sure of it, and he knows nothing about that adventure; otherwise I should have heard of it. However, in any event, you will only need to repeat what is the truth, and adhere to it, that you have never had either nephew or natural child, and that you are in no way responsible for the practical jokes of a professional jester like Christian Waldo.”

“After all, I am as indifferent upon the subject as yourself,” replied M. Goefle, taking off his wig, and covering his head with a light black cap which Christian gave him; “do you suppose I am such a coward as to be afraid of the ogre of this castle? Christian, I am about to make my first appearance as an exhibitor of marionettes. Well, if you should ever be reproached with having earned your living as a showman, so as to devote yourself to science, you can reply that you knew a man holding an honorable position in a dignified profession, who became your fellow-performer for his own amusement.”

“Or rather out of kindness to me, Monsieur Goefle.”

“Kindness for you, if you choose, for I really like you; but it would be wrong to suppose that I feel any distaste for this performance. On the contrary, it seems to me that it will be immensely diverting. In the first place the piece is charming, comic to the highest degree, and at the same time pathetic, in certain parts. You showed your wisdom in avoiding all allusions in the present arrangement. Come, Christian, let us rehearse! We haven’t more than half an hour. Let’s be quick! Are we all safe here? Can no one either hear us or see us?”

Christian had some difficulty in preventing M. Goefle from fatiguing his voice and exhausting himself in the rehearsal. The successive scenes were briefly indicated upon the schedule, and two or three questions and replies devoted to each of them were quite sufficient to give full command of the principal situations, which were to be the basis of the public improvisation. What was most important was to lay the marionettes in the proper order on the platform behind the scenes arranged for the purpose, so as to find them without confusion, when they should be required on the stage; to bring them forward correctly in their turns; and to have a good understanding about their entries and exits, and the main tenor of the story. The dialogue itself they left to the inspiration of the moment. M. Goefle was the most delightful and intelligent associate Christian had ever had. He was quite electrified by the collision of their wits, and, when eight o’clock struck, he was in a brilliant flow of spirits, such as he had not experienced since playing with Massarelli, then so agreeable and attractive. That distant and now sadly faded remembrance caused him a moment’s melancholy, which, however, he quickly shook off as he remarked to M. Goefle:

“There, I hear them coming into the gallery. Be all ready, my dear comrade, and good luck to us!”

At this moment some one knocked at the further door, and the voice of Johan, the major-domo, asked for Christian Waldo.

“I beg pardon,” called out Christian, “but you can’t come in now. Speak through the door; I can hear.”

Johan answered that Christian was to be in readiness to open the performance; and that three raps on the door would notify him when to begin. At that signal the door would be opened to allow the theatre to be set forward.

This being agreed upon, still another quarter of an hour had to pass before the ladies could all be suited with seats, where their dresses and graces could be properly displayed, and where each should be near the cavalier most agreeable to herself, or to whom she most wished to be agreeable. Christian, who was used to such delays, busied himself with arranging the refreshments that he had found in the little saloon upon a table, where it would be conveniently at hand, in case he or his companion should want to clear their voices between the acts. When he had done this, both he and M. Goefle stepped into the theatre, which was covered in with curtains securely fastened in front and at the sides. The back, which was movable, was set far enough to the rear to allow room for several side-scenes.

The two operators now awaited the three raps, Christian calmly, M. Goefle with an almost feverish impatience, which he expressed openly.

“What, do you feel vexed?” said Christian. “Well, that shows that you are excited; it is a good sign. You will be brilliant.”

“I hope so,” replied the lawyer; “though, to tell you the truth, it seems to me just now as if I should not be able to say a single word, and should break down. That would be extremely agreeable; it makes me dizzy to think of it. No case that I ever argued before the most august assembly, no question involving the life and honor of a client, or my own success, ever agitated my mind and strained my nerves as this farce is doing. Will those chatterboxes of women that I hear cackling through the doors never be quiet? Do they want to smother us in this box? I’ll break out and abuse them if this continues.”

Finally the three blows were struck. Two footmen, stationed in the gallery, opened simultaneously the two sides of the door, and the little theatre was seen to move forward lightly, as if of its own accord, and to take its place before the door-way, which it entirely filled. Four musicians, whom Christian had stipulated for, played a brief quartette in the Italian style. The curtain rose, and the applause which was given to the scenery afforded the operators time to place their marionettes in position for appearing upon the stage.

Christian never began his performances without inspecting his audience through a little peep-hole, which he had contrived for the purpose. The first person he saw happened to be the very one he was looking for. Margaret was seated next Olga, in the front row. She was in a delicious toilet, and looked positively ravishing. Christian next noticed the baron, who was in the front row of the gentlemen’s seats, behind those of the ladies, and whose lofty stature made him at once conspicuous. He was even paler, if possible, than the evening before. Massarelli did not seem to be present, but Christian saw with pleasure Major Larrson, Lieutenant Erwin Osburn, and the other young officers who, on the previous evening, during the ball and after it, had shown him such cordial sympathy, and whose ruddy countenances, already lighted up with the expectation of pleasure, were full of kindly interest. At the same time, Christian could hear them praising the scene.

“Why, that is Stollborg!” said several voices.

“True,” said Baron Olaus, in his metallic voice, “I really believe that they have tried to represent old Stollborg.”

As for M. Goefle, he could neither hear nor see; he was for the moment horribly discomposed. To give him time to recover himself, Christian began with a scene between two actors, which he played alone. His voice adapted itself with singular ease to the different utterances of the beings he was representing; and not only did he vary his intonations, he made each character, at the same time, use just the language which was best suited to its part and position in the little comedy. From the very outset the audience were charmed with his natural and truthful style. M. Goefle, whose duty it was for the moment to represent an old man, very soon came in with his part. At first he did not succeed very well in disguising his voice, but the audience were so far from suspecting his presence, and were so thoroughly convinced that Christian did all the talking, that there was the greatest amazement at the infinite resources of the operator.

“Wouldn’t you be willing to swear,” said Larrson, “that there were a dozen persons in there?”

“There must be four, at least,” said the lieutenant.

“No,” replied the major, “there are only two, the master and his assistant. But the assistant is a mere brute, who very seldom speaks, and who has not opened his mouth, so far.”

“But hark! there are two persons speaking. I distinctly hear two different voices.”

“Pure delusion!” replied the enthusiastic Larrson; “it is Christian Waldo all alone. He can represent two or three or four persons all at the same time, and more too, perhaps; who knows? He is the very devil. But attend to the piece; it is wonderfully entertaining. One would like to commit his plays to memory, so as to write them out.”

In spite of all this praise, however, we shall not undertake to enter into the details of this play for the reader’s benefit. Such fugitive compositions are like all oral or musical improvisations; it is a mistake to suppose that they would appear so well if transcribed and preserved. Their unexpectedness is a chief part of their attractiveness, and it is just because we can only recall them indistinctly, and that the imagination, therefore, has full opportunity to embellish them, that we remember them as so charming. Whatever Christian produced in these extempore efforts had always spirit, character, and taste. And as for the imperfections inseparable from an impromptu recitation, the rapid movement of the piece, and the artist’s adroitness in introducing new characters as soon as he found himself growing weary of those already upon the stage, caused them to be entirely overlooked.

As for M. Goefle, his genuine natural eloquence, his ready wit, when excited, and extensive and varied information, made it very easy for him to do his part, when he had once recovered from his fright. His promptness in seizing any fancy of his interlocutor, and making the most of it, gave rise to the most entertaining digressions; and the usual amazement at the variety and knowledge displayed in Waldo’s dialogue, was greater than ever.

Although declining to enter into the particulars of Christian’s comedy, we must at least explain how it was he had changed the first act; with which, in its original form, M. Goefle, it will be remembered, had been so deeply impressed.

Restrained by the fear of really compromising the advocate by some unintentional allusion, he had made the villain of the piece a comic character, a sort of Cassandre, deceived by his ward, and constantly seeking the _corpus delicti_--the Child of Mystery--but without any criminal designs against him. Christian was very much surprised, therefore, as he began the last scene of the first act, to hear a movement in the audience, as if a sort of shudder had passed over it, and a general whispering, which, to his practised ear, skilled in detecting the sentiments of his spectators, even while he himself was speaking, seemed to express blame rather than praise.

“What can have happened?” he asked himself.

Glancing at M. Goefle, he saw that he looked troubled, and was tapping the floor with one foot, as if vexed, while he moved his marionette nervously about upon the stage.

Christian, imagining that he had forgotten some part of the plot, hastened to relieve him by bringing forward the boatman, and, hurrying up the conclusion of the act, he lowered the curtain. This was followed neither by applause nor hisses, but there was a general rush in the audience, as if they were hurrying out, to avoid hearing anything further. Peeping through his eye-hole, before withdrawing the theatre behind the door for the intermission, he saw, in fact, that his whole audience, although not yet dispersed, had risen; and, with their backs turned towards the theatre, were discussing some event in low voices. The only words he could distinguish were: “_Gone out! He has gone out!_” And glancing round the room to see who could be meant, he saw that the baron was no longer in the gallery.

“Come,” said M. Goefle, nudging him with his elbow, “let’s move back into the green-room. Why are you waiting? It’s the intermission.”

The theatre, therefore, rolled back within the saloon, the doors were closed; and as he rapidly shifted his scenes for the second act, Christian asked M. Goefle if he had noticed anything in particular.

“The deuce!” said the lawyer, with a good deal of excitement; “I have done it finely this time! What do you say?”

“Your performance? It was excellent, M. Goefle.”

“I was stupid, crazy! It is inconceivable that a man accustomed to speak in public on the most delicate subjects, and about the most involved and doubtful cases, should have been overtaken by such an accident! Can you understand it?”

“But what accident, for heaven’s sake, Monsieur Goefle?”

“What, are you deaf? Did you not hear me make three most frightful blunders?”

“Pshaw! I probably made a hundred; it happens every day. Nobody notices them.”

“You think so? Nobody notices them? I’ll wager something that the baron left the room before we were through.”

“He did, that’s the fact! Is he so very critical that a careless connective or an ill-chosen word--”

“What! A thousand devils! That is not the matter at all! I would rather have had my tongue cut out than to have said what I did. While you were stooping down to bring the boat under the rocks, and I was making the men on guard talk, only imagine that I said three times, ‘the baron,’ instead of ‘Don Sancho’! I did, three times! Once by mere oversight, again when I had noticed it, and meant to correct myself; and a third time--I never heard of such a thing, Christian--to say exactly the very word that one intends not to say! There was some fatality about it; I am almost ready to believe, as our peasants do, that evil spirits intermeddle with our doings!”

“It is very curious, really,” said Christian, “but it might have happened to any one. Why are you so much annoyed about it, M. Goefle? The baron can never suspect that it was done on purpose. And besides, is he the only baron in the world? Are there not a dozen of them, perhaps, in the very audience before us? Come, let us attend to the second act; time is passing, and they may call for us at any moment.”

“If they don’t send to countermand the performance. There, some one is knocking!”

“It is the major-domo again. Step in under the frame, M. Goefle; I will put on my mask and open the door; he must see what is going on.”

When M. Goefle was out of sight, and Christian masked, the door was opened to M. Johan.

“What is the matter?” asked Christian, going promptly to the point. “Shall we go on?”

“Why not, M. Waldo?” said the major-domo.

“I fancied that his lordship was indisposed.”

“Oh, he often suffers from nervousness, when he remains long in one place. It is nothing, however. He has just sent me to tell you that you are to go on whether he returns or not; he would regret to have the company disappointed of their entertainment. But what an odd idea that was of yours, M. Christian, to represent our old Stollborg in your theatre!”

“I hoped it might please his lordship the baron,” said Christian, with effrontery. “Was I mistaken?”

“His lordship is enchanted with the idea; he said over and over, ‘Capital! How good it is! You would think it was the old donjon itself.’”

“I’m very glad indeed,” returned Christian; “in that case we’ll continue. Your servant, M. Major-domo! Come, M. Goefle, take courage,” he said, when Johan had gone; “you see it’s all correct, and that we have been only dreaming all day. Now I wager that the baron is the best fellow in the world, you will see that he will be converted, and we shall have to canonize him.”

The baron concluded to return, after all, and the second act, which was short and lively, seemed to amuse him extremely. Don Sancho did not appear. M. Goefle made no more slips of the tongue, and succeeded so well in disguising his voice, that nobody suspected his presence. In the next intermission he drank sundry glasses of port to keep up his spirits, and during the third and last act, which was even more successful than the two preceding ones, he was, perhaps, a little elevated.

The comic scenes in which Stentarello entertained the public, Christian varied with a sentimental by-plot between other characters. In the last act, Alonzo, the child of the lake, discovered that Rosita, the daughter of the worthy couple who had adopted and brought him up, was not his sister, whereupon he avowed his love to her. This well-known dramatic situation is always a delicate one to manage. There is something unwelcome in seeing a brother pass suddenly from a sacred friendship to a passion which, in spite of the change of circumstances, persists, as it were, in seeming unholy. This young girl and Alonzo were the only two of his characters whom Christian had not burlesqued. He had represented the latter as a good-hearted young man, with views and pursuits like his own. The audience felt a sympathy for his generous and adventurous qualities, and the ladies, quite forgetting that it was only a marionette which they beheld, were charmed with the pleasant voice which discoursed to them of love with a certain chaste tenderness, and in a frank tone, far different from the mannerisms of the fashionable French pastorals of the day.