Part 28

By this time supper had been served to the guests at the new chateau, and the size and beauty of the splendid Christmas-cake, which, according to the Norwegian usage, was to remain uncut upon the table until the sixth of January, was attracting the admiration of the ladies. It was a masterpiece of confectionery; and, with due respect to the gallantry of the period as well as to the observances of a religious festival, it had been made to resemble the temple of Paphos. It was ornamented with monuments, trees, fountains, people and animals. The pastry-work, and crystallized sugar of all colors, imitated the most precious materials, and were elaborately wrought into the most fantastic forms.

The baron, on the plea of having important letters to read and answer, had intrusted the duty of doing the honors of the supper-table to an elderly single lady of his family, a person thoroughly accomplished in the duties of the mistress of the house, and a complete cipher in all other respects. The truth was, that the baron, who never lacked excuses for excluding himself when he happened to feel preoccupied, was, at the present moment, shut up in his private cabinet with a man with a pale face, who called himself Tebaldo, and who was no other than Guido Massarelli. Guido had not obtained this tête-à-tête without effort. Johan, who was very jealous of his master’s confidence, had tried to extract his secret from him, so as to turn it to his own advantage; but Massarelli was not the man to be deceived in that way. He had insisted; and after waiting about the chateau for the whole day, he had at last succeeded in obtaining the interview, whose results he had anticipated, when he had boasted in advance to Christian that he was a friend of the family. The conversation, which was carried on in French, begun with a strange narrative, to which the baron listened with a sarcastic and contemptuous expression.

“You have made a very startling statement,” he observed, at last, to Massarelli; “and I should even say, if I could believe what I have heard, a very important revelation. But I have so often been deceived in matters of a delicate nature, that I must insist on other proofs than mere verbal ones, before trusting you. The story you have related is strange, romantic, improbable--”

“And yet M. Stenson acknowledged its accuracy; he did not even attempt to deny it,” replied the Italian.

“So you say,” coldly answered the baron; “unfortunately, I am unable to corroborate your assertions. If I should interrogate Stenson, he would certainly deny it, whether it be true or imaginary.”

“Very probably, your lordship. A man so capable of dissimulation as to have imposed upon you for twenty years, will not be at a loss for a falsehood now; but, if you will contrive to overhear a conversation between us, you can learn the truth. I will undertake to make him admit it again, and in your hearing, provided he has no suspicion of your presence.”

“It would not be difficult, so deaf as he is, to introduce one’s self into his premises; but since, according to him, the person is dead, why need I concern myself about the past life of old Stenson? He must necessarily have acted in good faith; and though he had done me a great wrong by keeping silence, and thus permitting odious suspicions to rest upon me, yet--since time has rectified former prejudices--”

“Not so entirely as your lordship seems to believe,” observed the Italian, who was scarcely inferior to the baron himself in cool audacity. “The story is current throughout the country, and Christian Waldo must certainly have heard it on his way here.”

“If that were the case,” said the baron, with a look betraying his secret rage, “that juggler would never have dared introduce it in public, and before my very face, into a scene of his comedy.”

“And yet one of his scenes did really represent the old donjon. I examined the locality to-day, and Christian Waldo, who is lodging at Stollborg, must certainly have done the same. The Italians--they are very bold fellows, your lordship, these Italians!”

“I see they are, M. Tebaldo. You say that this Waldo is lodging at Stollborg, and therefore must have painted this scene on purpose, and from nature. It is hardly probable that he could have done it so quickly. The resemblance between his decoration and the old tower must have been accidental.”

“I think not, your lordship; Waldo has great facility, and paints as rapidly as he improvises.”

“You know him, then?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“What is his real name?”

“That is what I proposed to communicate to your lordship, if the sum I have mentioned does not seem to you exorbitant.”

“But what interest can I have in learning his real name?”

“An interest that is immense; _all important_.”

The emphasis with which the pretended Tebaldo pronounced these last words, seemed to make some impression on the baron.

“You say,” he resumed, after a pause, “that the person referred to is dead?”

“Stenson affirms that it is so.”

“And you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Perhaps Christian Waldo knows?”

“He knows nothing at all about it.”

“You are certain of that?”

“I am certain.”

“But you are trying to give me to understand that this person is the same with--”

“I did not say that, your lordship.”

“Then you are trying to say it and not to say it. You wish to be paid in advance for information probably chimerical.”

“No, I have only demanded your lordship’s signature, to be used in case you shall afterwards be satisfied with what you receive from me.”

“I never give my signature. If any one doubts me, so much the worse for him.”

“In that case, your lordship, I will carry my secret away with me again. He whom it concerns, at least as much as it does yourself, shall have it for nothing.”

Tebaldo was going resolutely out of the cabinet, when the baron recalled him. These two men were both secretly agitated, and for a similar cause: they were afraid of each other. Before Guido had had time to lay his hand upon the knob of the door, he said to himself: “I am crazy; the baron will have me assassinated to secure my silence.” Upon his side, the baron reflected: “Perhaps he has already spoken; he alone can tell me what I really have to fear.”

“M. Tebaldo,” said the baron, “suppose I should tell you that I have known him longer than you imagine?”

“I should be delighted on your account, your lordship,” answered the Italian, with audacity.

“This person is not dead. He is here--or at least he was here yesterday. I saw him, and recognized him.”

“Recognized him?” said Massarelli, with surprise.

“Yes, recognized. I know what I am saying. He called himself by the name of Goefle, either with or without the permission of a respectable gentleman of that name. You can therefore speak freely. You see that I am on the right track, and that it is simply puerile to endeavor to direct my suspicions upon this mountebank, Waldo.”

The Italian, astonished, was silent. He had arrived only that morning, and knew nothing of what had passed the evening before. He had met M. Goefle, but without knowing who he was. He could not speak Swedish, and still less Dalecarlian; and had found no one to talk to except the major-domo, who could speak a little French, but was very distrustful. Accordingly he was perfectly ignorant of the appearance of Christian Goefle at the ball, and really did not know what the baron was speaking about. The latter, on seeing his surprise and discomfiture, imagined that he was confounded, by finding him already in possession of the truth.

“Come,” he said, “speak out, and make an end of it. Tell me the whole. You may rely upon a recompense corresponding to the service which you may render me.”

But the Italian had already recovered his assurance. Persuaded that the baron was on a false scent, and resolved not to surrender his secret for an inadequate recompense, his only thought at present was to gain time, and to escape from the clutches of this man who was reputed so terrible, and who might play him an ill turn in case of a peremptory refusal to explain himself.

“Is your lordship willing,” he said, “to give me twenty-four thousand crowns, and allow me twenty-four hours to place in your presence, and within your power, the person whom it is so much for your interest to know?”

“Twenty-four thousand crowns is little,” replied the baron, ironically; “twenty-four hours is a great deal.”

“It is but little, for a man who is alone.”

“Are you in want of assistance? I have very adroit and trustworthy people in my employment.”

“If I am to share the twenty-four thousand crowns with them, I would rather act alone, at my own risk and peril.”

“But which is it that you propose to do?”

“Whatever your lordship shall direct.”

“Indeed! You seem to be suggesting--”

At this moment, the baron was interrupted by a sort of scratching upon the outside of one of the doors of the cabinet.

“Wait here for me,” he said to Massarelli, and went out into another room.

Guido now rapidly reviewed the situation. He was terrified by the baron’s calmness, and began to think that correspondence would be a more prudent mode of transacting the business. Hoping to escape, he crossed the room, and tried the door by which he had entered. It was shut and latched by some secret device, which he could not detect, notwithstanding a certain degree of mechanical skill. He looked out of the window; it was eighty feet from the ground.

He noiselessly tried the door by which the baron had gone out; it was as close shut as the other. The desk stood open, and within it was visible a delectable assemblage of rouleaux of gold.

“Ah!” said Massarelli to himself, with a sigh; “the doors must needs be strong, and the locks good, if they trust me here alone with all those bright pieces.”

His position began to seem to him serious, and even alarming. He listened, hoping to catch what was said in the next room, but could not distinguish a single word. However, we shall take the liberty of reporting the conversation that was held there:

“Well, Johan,” said the baron, “did you succeed? Did you see this Waldo’s face?”

“Yes, your lordship. He is not yesterday’s man; he is a monster.”

“Worse looking than you?”

“I am a beauty compared with him.”

“Did you have a good look at him?”

“As distinct as I have of you, at the present moment.”

“Did you take him by surprise?”

“Not at all. I said I was curious to see him, and he was so obliging as to unmask.”

“And how about the other, the false Goefle?”

“No news.”

“Very singular. Has nobody seen anything of him anywhere?”

“This Waldo did not meet him at Stollborg, and M. Goefle knows nothing at all about him.”

“Perhaps Ulphilas may have seen him?”

“Ulphilas declares that nobody has been at Stollborg but M. Goefle, his domestic, and this frightful looking fellow, whom I just now saw myself.”

“M. Goefle has a domestic, has he? That is our unknown in disguise.”

“It’s a child of ten years old.”

“Then I am quite at a loss.”

“Has your lordship received any information from this Italian?”

“No; he is either a liar or a lunatic. But in any event, I must discover the incognito fellow who insulted me. You say he smoked and talked with Major Larrson and his friends?”

“Yes, in the lower saloon.”

“Then those young men are hiding him; he is at the major’s bostoelle!”

“I will have it watched. The major is not the man to keep a secret, with that careless way of his. He came here this morning, and has not been home to-day. His lieutenant--”

“Is an ass! But these young people hate me.”

“What have you to fear from this unknown?”

“Everything, and nothing. What do you think of this Tebaldo?”

“A blackguard.”

“Then we must not let go of him. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“How far are they with supper?”

“The dessert will be served shortly.”

“I must go and show myself. Give orders to get out my handsomest sleigh and the best four-horse team.”

“Do you join the race on the lake?”

“No; on the contrary, I shall try and rest. But I want the people here to think me remarkably well; I shall be detained by public business. Have a courier all ready and booted, and be sure that he is seen. Give orders and counter-orders about him. Let it be supposed that I am very busy, and, of course, in good health.”

“Then you want your beloved heirs to burst with vexation?”

“I want to bury them, Johan.”

“Amen, my dear master! Shall I wait on you as far as the supper-room?”

“No, I like to go silently and take my company by surprise; just now, especially.”

The baron accordingly departed for the supper-room, and Johan went into the cabinet, where Massarelli, who was waiting with great anxiety, found the time pass very slowly.

“Come, my boy,” said Johan, with his most gracious air, “it’s supper-time.”

“But--am I not to see the baron again this evening? He told me to wait here.”

“He sends you word by me to have a quiet supper, and wait for further orders. Do you suppose you are the only person he has to listen to? Come along. Are you afraid of me? Do I look like a bad sort of fellow?”

“You do, upon my word,” said Guido to himself, as he slipped a stiletto, which he knew how to handle very skilfully, into his sleeve.

Johan espied the performance, and hurried out of the room. Guido endeavored to follow, but he was seized by two colossal fellows, who were stationed at the door, and who led him, with a pistol at his head, to the prison of the chateau. There he was searched and disarmed, and then handed over to the guardian of the place, a sort of bravo and adventurer, in short a professional villain, who was known in the chateau as “the captain,” but who never made his appearance in the saloons.

Johan, who had followed, supervised the examination that was made of Guido’s pockets and clothes with a benign air. When certain that he had no papers concealed about him, he withdrew, saying:

“Good-night, my young friend. Next time, don’t try any tricks.”

He added to himself:

“He said he had the proofs of a great secret. Either he has lied like an idiot, or he has been cautious, like a man that understands business; but he was not cautious enough. So much the worse for him. A small dose of imprisonment will fetch either the proofs or the confession.”

Meanwhile the baron, although in great physical pain, quietly entered the supper-room, ate a little with an air of appetite, and was as gay as it was in his nature to be. That is, he stated, with an icy smile, sundry propositions of a frightfully atheistical kind, and indulged in various odious and cruel insinuations about sundry persons who were absent.

When calumniating his neighbors, it was the practice of this amiable gentleman to speak in a low voice, and with an air of indifference; but, on such occasions, his heirs and flatterers were only too ready to repeat his witty sayings with much noise and laughter. As was natural, many persons present would be shocked by these remarks; but, by accepting their host’s invitation, they had put it out of their power to contradict him boldly, and such timid defence of the absent as they ventured upon only served, as a matter of course, to make their case the worse. The baron would repeat his remarks with an air of disdainful bravado, and would be eagerly sustained by his satellites. Those of his guests who were really right-minded could only sigh and blush at their own weakness in having allowed themselves to be dragged into such an ogre’s den. But the master of the house never protracted any discussion. After hurling some bitter sarcasm at good-natured and timid people, he would rise and go out, leaving it quite uncertain as to whether or not he intended to return. A universal sense of constraint would prevail, until it became evident that he was not going to return, and then everybody would take breath, even his most unscrupulous dependents, who were quite as uneasy in his presence as the rest of the company.

On this evening, however, Baron Olaus lost a good opportunity of revenging himself, and inflicting pain upon another. Had he known of Margaret’s two visits to Stollborg, he would not have failed to proclaim the fact in some bitterly satirical way. Fortunately, Providence had guarded the young girl’s innocent secret. Her enemy, who would have read in her conduct conclusive proofs that the counterfeit Goefle was at Stollborg, had not received the slightest hint on the subject. Johan had caused Ulphilas to be closely questioned about all the persons who had visited the old tower in the course of the day; but Ulphilas had not seen Margaret, and he had a sufficient reason for making a singularly appropriate reply to all inquiries about Christian’s appearance; to wit, the terror with which he had been inspired by the young man’s grimaces and threats in an unknown tongue. To Ulphilas he had appeared even more frightful without a mask than he had seemed to Johan with one; the assertions of the boor satisfied the major-domo that his opinion was correct, and led him to confirm the baron in his error. The result of the investigation was, therefore, that the handsome Christian Goefle had disappeared, and that the real Christian Waldo was a monster.

The baron communicated this latter piece of intelligence to the party at the supper-table with a kind of satisfaction; for, just as he came in, they were praising the artist, and he found a certain pleasure in dissipating an agreeable illusion.

“You ought not to spoil his beauty in the eyes of Countess Margaret, baron,” said Olga, “she was enthusiastic over his delivery, and now I wager anything that she will not take the least pleasure in listening to him.”

Margaret, who was seated near Olga and the baron, pretended not to hear, so that she need not be obliged to answer, in case the latter should seek to enter into conversation with her, as he had already tried in vain to do several times since the previous evening.

“You think, then,” resumed the baron, still addressing Olga, but speaking quite loud, “that Countess Margaret would not be touched by a lover’s plea, unless it should be urged by a young and handsome man.”

“I am sure of it,” answered Olga, lowering her voice, “and no man is handsome, in her eyes, who is more than twenty-five years old.”

Olga intended this as a delicate compliment to her semi-centennial intended, but he was not in a good humor, and the arrow missed aim.

“She is probably quite right,” he replied, so low that no one but the young Russian could hear him; “the longer one lives after that fortunate age the more one loses one’s good looks, and the less can he expect to marry for love.”

“True,” said Olga, “if he does lose his good looks, but--”

“But even if he does not become altogether horrible,” persisted the baron, “he will still be fortunate, if he is able to contract a sensible marriage.”

Olga was about to reply, but he closed her mouth by adding:

“Do not find fault with that poor child. She has one great merit in my eyes--she is sincere. When she hates people she shows it so frankly, that the fortunate man who shall succeed in pleasing her may trust her completely. She is a person who will never deceive.”

Olga had no opportunity to reply, for the baron turned away and began talking to some one else.

The young Russian was extremely irritated, and very much disquieted. When they arose from the table, Margaret, who was equally anxious, though from a very different cause, approached her.

“What was the baron saying?” she asked, drawing her aside; “he was talking about me, I know, for he was looking straight at me for two or three minutes.”

“You only fancied so,” answered Olga, dryly; “he does not think of you at all any more.”

“Ah! I wish I could be sure of it. Tell me the truth, dear. Is it so?”

“Your anxiety, Margaret, is not very delicate, allow me to say. You think that, in spite of your severity to him, he still adores you.”

“Very well, why not?” asked Margaret, resolving to pique her companion for the sake of getting at the truth; “perhaps I shall succeed in supplanting you, in despite of myself, exactly by being severe!”

A flash of wounded vanity gleamed in the eyes of the pretty Russian.

“Margaret,” she said, “you want war, and you shall have it. Here, take back your present! You gave me a handsome bracelet, but I don’t want it any longer. Here is a ring that is much handsomer.”

She drew a box from her pocket, which she opened; it contained two ornaments--Margaret’s bracelet and the baron’s ring.

“The black diamond!” cried Margaret, shrinking back in terror. “What! are you not afraid to touch it?”

But before Olga could reply, she recovered herself:

“No matter, no matter,” she said, embracing her, “I decline war, dear friend, and I really thank you, with all my heart, for showing me your engagement-ring. Keep the bracelet, I beg of you; be assured of my thanks and my friendship.”

Olga burst into tears.

“Margaret,” she said, “if you betray me I am ruined. I swore to keep my engagement secret for eight days; and if the baron suspects that I have failed in my word--and he will, if you show how glad you are--he will break it off, and begin to think of you again--especially since he has never ceased to do so.”

“And that is what you are crying for? Why then, you love him, do you not? Well, my dear friend, however strange your preference seems to me, it sets you right, in my opinion. I thought that you were merely ambitious. If you love, I love you--and I am sorry for you!”

“Ah!” said Olga, “you are sorry for me, are you not?”

Drawing Margaret to the end of the gallery, she sobbed upon her shoulder, and could scarcely keep from breaking out into violent hysterical cries. Margaret carried her away to her own room, where, after a time, she quieted her.

“There, I am well again now,” said Olga, rising; “I have had two or three such attacks since yesterday, but this is the last; I feel it. I have made up my mind; I intend to be calm. I can trust you, and I will not be weak, I will not be afraid, I will not suffer any longer.”

She took the ring from her pocket, put it on her finger, and turned pale again as she gazed upon it, with a melancholy expression. Then, taking it off, she said:

“I must not wear it yet.”

And she replaced it in the box, and in her pocket.

Margaret left her without understanding what was really passing in her mind. This strange passion for a man of the baron’s age and character seemed to her inexplicable, but she was so generous and so simple-hearted that she believed in it; while the truth was that Olga, seized with a sudden hatred for her betrothed husband, and disgust at her betrothal ring, was struggling against what she called her human weakness--was trying hard to quell the revolt of her heart, her mind, her whole being, so that she might consummate, without shrinking, her unhappy and dangerous conquest of a great name and a high social position.

During this scene the baron had been giving orders for the race and masquerade, as if he had expected to be present at them himself. But, having done this, he left his guests to make their preparations for the evening’s entertainment, and retired to his own room, worn out with fatigue and pain. In the meanwhile his horses, magnificently harnessed, and restrained with difficulty by the coachman, who pretended to be waiting for his master, were gayly prancing before his private door.

He was, in fact, shut up with his physician, a young man of larger attainments than experience, who, for a year past, had been attached exclusively to his service.

“Doctor,” said he, putting aside a dose which the young man offered him in a timid and apprehensive manner, “you are not treating me properly! More opium, I’ll venture!”

“Your lordship requires quieting medicines; your nervous system is in a state of extreme agitation.”