Part 30

“But for a sensible man like me to run his horse’s legs off, just to beat a parcel of boys! It’s absurd, Christian, isn’t it?”

“It is, if you think so; it all depends upon the degree of intoxication with which we go into such amusements.”

“We’ll go!” exclaimed M. Goefle; “to resist the suggestions of intoxication is to be reasonable; that is, to be stupid. Get up, Loki!”

“Wait!” cried Christian, jumping out of the sleigh. “Let me take off his head-cover. How can he run with his nose muffled up like that?”

“Very true, Christian; thank you, my boy, but be quick! they are all ready.”

Scarcely had the doctor of laws spoken before a firework, placed upon another islet at the rear of the course, went off with a formidable noise. It was the signal for starting.

“Go on! go on!” cried Christian to M. Goefle, who would have held in Loki until the young man had resumed his seat; “you are losing time!”

He encouraged the horse, who set off at the top of his speed, while Christian remained with the head-cover in his hand, watching the career of the advocate and his faithful Loki. He did not look after them very long, however. As he moved a little to one side to get out of the way of the remaining horses, who, excited by the fireworks and the example of their companions who had joined in the race, were stepping about in a very lively way, he found himself close to a blue and silver sleigh, which he recognized as Margaret’s. This light vehicle was modelled in the spreading shape of a carriage-body of the time of Louis XV., and was mounted, or rather set down upon runners, so that it was easy to look, without any effort whatever, directly through the glasses, which were now slightly incrusted by frost. Supposing, of course, that Margaret was upon the rocky audience gallery with her companions, Christian did not expect to find her within. Still he looked, all the same, and, to his surprise, beheld her in her usual costume, and without a mask. A little indisposed, or pretending to be so, she had remained alone, and was watching the race through the door of the sleigh. The driver had taken a place a little aside from the rest, and had turned the sleigh in such a way as to give Margaret a good view of the course; and this also enabled Christian to gaze at Margaret and to be quite near her, without being seen by the rest of the company, who were, besides, absorbed in gazing at the race.

He would not have ventured to speak to her, and he took pains to assume a careless attitude, as if his being there was quite accidental, when she suddenly lowered the glass to speak to him. He was still holding the head-gear of the horse, and she took him for a servant.

“Tell me, my friend,” she said, in a low voice, though without any affectation, “who is that man in a black mask like yours, who just passed, and who is racing now? It is your master, is it not, Christian Waldo?”

“No, mademoiselle,” replied Christian, in French, and without changing his voice or accent, “I am Christian Waldo!”

“Ah, _mon Dieu_! how fortunate!” replied the young girl, with an intonation of joy that she could not repress; and lowering her voice still more, for Christian had come close up to the door, “is it you, M. Christian Goefle? What suggested to you to assume that character this evening?”

“Perhaps it was in order to remain here without compromising my uncle,” he replied.

“Then you did care a little about staying?” she rejoined, in a tone that made Christian’s heart beat.

He had not the courage to reply that he did not care; it was more than he could do; but he felt that it was time to put an end to a comedy so dangerous, if not to the young countess, at least to himself, and, with an effort of truthful self-sacrifice that made him dizzy, he said promptly:

“I wanted to stay so as to undeceive you. I am not the person you supposed. I am what I tell you, Christian Waldo.”

“I do not understand,” she said; “is it not enough to have mystified me once? Why do you wish to play another part? Do you suppose I did not recognize your voice when you were performing with Christian Waldo’s marionettes with so much spirit? I saw very plainly that you were more brilliant than he--”

“But what makes you believe that?” said Christian, astonished; “to whom do you suppose you were listening this evening?”

“To you and to him. There were two voices, I am sure, perhaps three--yours, Waldo’s, and that of his assistant.”

“There were only two, I give you my word.”

“Very well, what then? I tell you I recognized yours. You cannot deceive me as to that.”

“Why, no; my voice is my voice; I do not deny that; but I must tell you--”

“Listen! listen!” exclaimed Margaret; “do you hear? They are proclaiming the name of the victor. It is Christian Waldo, I think--yes, yes, I am sure of it. I hear it distinctly, and I can plainly see the man in the mask, standing up, in his little black sleigh. That is he! He is the real one. You are only a counterfeit Waldo. But really, M. Goefle, you ought to take his place; the best things in the whole play, and the best delivered--and, above all, the entire part of Alonzo--were yours! Come now, let me hear you venture to assert that I am mistaken!”

“As to the part of Alonzo, I cannot deny that.”

“Shall you play again to-morrow, M. Goefle?”

“Certainly.”

“That will be very kind of you! For my part, I thank you; but are you quite sure that no one will suspect who you are? You must keep yourself well hidden at Stollborg. I am glad to see that you are so prudent, and know so well how to disguise yourself. No one could recognize you, dressed as you are now. But you must go away, please! They are all getting into their sleighs to drive to the hogar and compliment the victor. My aunt will certainly join me. No, she is going in the Russian ambassador’s sleigh. She leaves me alone! A mother would not have done that, M. Christian. An aunt, and so young and handsome--well, certainly, she is not much like a mother! Stay; she will surely send M. Stangstadius to keep me company!”

“M. Stangstadius!” exclaimed Christian, “where is he? I do not see him--”

“He was simple enough to put on a mask, but nobody can mistake him; if he were anywhere within sight, you would certainly recognize him. No, he is not coming, and they are all setting off.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Margaret’s driver, in Dalecarlian, to his young mistress, “her ladyship your aunt is making me a sign to follow.”

“Do so, then,” she said; “but you are on foot, M. Goefle! Jump up on the driver’s seat; you cannot go with us otherwise.”

“What will your aunt say?”

Christian asked the question, but he jumped up on the seat nevertheless, though not without regret that the conversation was ended. But Margaret closed the side window and opened the one in front, which was almost even with his face. The sleigh flew noiselessly over the snow, over which Peterson was driving just outside the beaten track, for he had lost his place in the regular array. The good fellow did not understand a single word of French, and the conversation continued:

“What is happening at the chateau?” asked Christian, hoping to divert Margaret’s attention from himself. “I have not seen the baron here; I should have thought he would have been as easily recognized by his height, as Stangstadius by his gait.”

“He has shut himself up, under the pretence of pressing and unexpected business. That means that he is worse; no one is deceived by it. Everybody saw his mouth drawn to one side, and his eye distorted. Don’t you think he is an extraordinary man, after all, to battle so with death? He meant to have raced to-night, with the young men, and he would certainly have won the prize, he has such splendid horses! There is to be a bear-hunt to-morrow, and either the baron will be at the hunt and will kill his bear, or he will be buried before any one has thought of countermanding the sport. One is just as possible as the other. Does not that make the situation here very singular for all of us? It seems as if the Snow Man took pleasure in seeing how few friends he has, since we all go on amusing ourselves in his house, as if nothing were the matter.”

“But, Margaret, you admire his resolution, and he succeeds in producing, even upon you, the effect he desires.”

“My dear confidant,” said Margaret, gayly, “you must know that my aversion for the baron has almost entirely ceased. He has become quite indifferent to me; he is going to marry--but that is a secret that I discovered accidentally, and have promised to keep. He is not going to marry me, at all events, and I shall have the happiness of remaining free--and poor--”

“Poor! I thought you were at least very well off.”

“Well, it turns out that I have nothing. I have had a quarrel with my aunt to-day--as usual, about the baron; and she has declared that she would give me no portion, and that she should take possession of the little inheritance which my father left me; she claims to have a right to it on account of some loan that she made him, of I don’t know how many ducats. I did not understand anything about it, except that I am ruined!”

“Ah, Margaret!” exclaimed Christian, involuntarily, “why am I not rich and well born? Understand me,” he continued, taking her hand, for she started, and seemed inclined to throw herself upon the further seat of the sleigh, “this is not a declaration, I am not so audacious as to address you in any such way. It would be an act of madness in me, for I have nothing in the world, and neither family nor position. But you have permitted me to be your friend. May I not tell you that, if I were rich and noble, I would divide with you as I would with my sister?”

“Thank you, Christian,” answered Margaret, still trembling, although reassured; “I see how good your heart is, and I know how kindly you feel towards me. But why do you say that you have no family, when your uncle’s reputation is so high--”

She paused, and added, with a forced laugh:

“You must not suppose I meant to say--what certainly I had no thought of. But no, you will not think anything of the kind; you have too much good sense. You are straightforward and confiding, like me; and you will understand that, if I question you, it is because I am interested about your future prosperity--no matter who may share it with you. Tell me, then, why do you torment yourself about your birth, which many people would envy?”

“Ah, Margaret,” said Christian, “you wish to know, and it is my wish to tell you. Here we are at the end of our ride, and I shall leave you, this time, forever. I will not secure a place in your memory at the price of a lie. To be despised and forgotten is all I deserve from you, and I accept my fate--so much the worse for me. Believe me, there is no such person as Christian Goefle. M. Goefle never had either son or nephew.”

“That is not true!” exclaimed Margaret. “He said so to-day at the chateau; and everybody was talking about it, but nobody believed him. You are his son--by a secret marriage. He will acknowledge and cherish you. He cannot help doing it.”

“I swear to you, upon my honor, that I am absolutely nothing to him; and that yesterday morning he knew no more of me than you know now!”

“Upon your honor! You swear upon your honor? But if you are not Christian Goefle, I do not know you at all! Nor is there any reason why I should believe you. If you are Christian Waldo, who, they say, can assume any human voice--ah, I cannot understand it! But it distresses me very much. Thank God! I still doubt--”

“Doubt no longer, Margaret!” said Christian, jumping down from his seat as the sleigh, at that moment, stopped. “Look at me, and know me for what I really am: a man who has dedicated to you the profoundest respect, the most absolute devotion of his heart, and who swears to you, upon his honor, that he is the real Christian Waldo!”

As he spoke, Christian lifted his silken mask from his forehead, moved resolutely into the light of the lantern, and showed his face plainly as he bent towards the door. Margaret, recognizing her friend of the previous evening, uttered a cry of grief, perhaps even too expressive, and covered her face with her hands, while Christian, lowering his mask once more, disappeared in the crowd of servants and peasants who were assembled to look at the sport.

He very soon approached M. Goefle, whom they were talking of carrying in triumph; not because he had reached the goal first--he was, in fact, the last to arrive--but for performing a brilliant and unexpected feat. He had caught with his whip, while going at full speedy the wig of M. Stangstadius, who had deposited himself, in spite of his opposition, upon Major Larrson’s sleigh. M. Goefle had not, of course, done this intentionally. The end of his whip-lash, as he was cracking it in the air, had happened to entangle itself around the queue of the wig, by one of those chances which we call improbable, because they happen say only once in a thousand times. The learned man’s hat, jerked off by M. Goefle’s efforts to free his whip, had flown off and settled down like a great black bird in the snow; the wig had held fast to the queue, the queue had refused to part with the whip-lash, and the whip, which M. Goefle could not stop to adjust, thus ending in a mass of hair heavy with powder, lost all its effect upon the sides of the spirited Loki. In the first moments of his triumph, the victorious Larrson had seen nothing of this; but the outcries and complaints of Stangstadius, who, with his head tied up in a handkerchief, was demanding his wig from every one he could see, soon attracted his attention.

“He’s the man!” shouted the insulted geologist, pointing to M. Goefle in his mask. “That Italian buffoon, in a silk mask. He did it on purpose, the rascal! Here, here, you scoundrel of a play-actor! I’ll slap your face a hundred times, to teach you to joke with a man like me.”

An immense burst of laughter greeted the wrath of Stangstadius, and the whole assembly shouted with applause the name of Christian Waldo; but the scene quickly changed. Stangstadius, irritated by the impertinent laughter of the young people, darted towards the ravisher of his wig, who was standing erect upon his sleigh, piteously exhibiting the cause of his defeat, which looked not unlike a great fish at the end of a line. M. Goefle, in an assumed voice, began to accuse Stangstadius, in a comic manner, of having played off this trick on him, so as to prevent him from whipping his horse and winning the race; but the man of science, who was as nimble as a monkey, in spite of his unequal legs and crooked arms, scrambled up behind him, snatched off his hat and his mask, and only paused in his projects of vengeance, on recognizing with surprise his friend Goefle, who was instantly saluted with unanimous applause.

Though M. Goefle was not known to all who were present, his name was repeated by a number of persons, and he was heartily greeted. The Swedes are very proud of their eminent men, especially in any pursuit that brings their native language into notice. Besides, the honorable character of the doctor of laws, and his reputation as a man of talent, secured him the respect and affection of all young people. They insisted on proclaiming him the victor in the race, and it was all he could do to prevent the good-natured major from transferring the prize to him. This was a drinking-horn, curiously carved and ornamented with Runic characters, in silver; a fac-simile of a precious relic of antiquity belonging to the baron’s collection, and discovered in the course of excavations made in the hogar some years before.

“No, my dear major,” said M. Goefle, putting his now useless mask into his pocket, while Stangstadius replaced his wig upon his head, “I only ran for honor; and since my honor, or rather that of my horse, has not been tarnished by the few seconds’ delay caused by that unlucky wig, I have nothing more to wish for. I am proud of Loki, and satisfied with myself. I should be still better contented,” he added, as he stepped out of the sleigh, “if I knew what had become of the poor fellow’s head-cover; he will catch cold.”

“Here it is,” said Christian in a low voice, approaching M. Goefle; “but since you have been recognized, I must take myself off at once, my dear uncle. It was well enough for Christian Waldo to have a masked servant, but in your case, it would be quite out of character.”

“No, no, Christian, I will not part with you!” said M. Goefle. “We will take a look at the lake from the top of the hogar, and then go back to Stollborg. Stay, we’ll give my horse to one of those peasants to hold, and then make the ascent. Take this side-path, and keep out of the way of the curious. A black mask, just now, is noticed by everybody; and I see, unless we make our escape, that we shall soon be surrounded and cross-questioned.”

XI.

WHILE Christian and M. Goefle adroitly escaped behind the mound, the main body of the company returned to the new chateau; the hogar was so steep, and the cold so great, that they would not venture to ascend it. And yet, in an excavation half way up, a sort of tent had been prepared, in which the revellers were expected to take punch; but the ladies had declined, and most of the gentlemen followed them. In about half an hour, when Christian and the lawyer were coming down from the platform, where the statue, too much heated by the flames of the resinous torches, was beginning to melt, they had the curiosity to look into this grotto, which had been hung and closed in with tarred cloths. They found nobody there but Larrson and his lieutenant. All the other young men, slaves either to their lady-loves, who had returned to the chateau, or to their horses, who were in danger of taking cold, had gone, or were about going. Osmund Larrson was an amiable young man, who tried with all his might to be a Frenchman in wit and manners, but who, fortunately for himself, was at heart devotedly patriotic. Lieutenant Erwin Osburn was one of those good-natured, blunt, decided characters, who are unable even to make an effort to produce any modification in themselves. He had all the qualities of an excellent officer and citizen, with the good-nature of a man who is in perfect health, and who does not trouble himself about what does not concern him. Larrson was his friend, his leader, his idol. He followed him like his shadow, and never so much as stirred a finger without his advice. He had even consulted him in the selection of a sweetheart.

As soon as the two friends saw M. Goefle, they hastened to lay hold of him, swearing that he should not leave the hogar until he had done them the honor to drink with them. The punch was ready, and only needed to be set on fire.

“I want to be able to say,” cried Larrson, “that I drank in the hogar of the lake on the nights of December 26th and 27th, with two men so celebrated in different professions as M. Edmund Goefle and Christian Waldo.”

“Christian Waldo!” said M. Goefle, “where are you going to find him?”

“There! behind you. He’s disguised like a poor devil, and masked; but it’s he, all the same. He has lost one of his great ugly gloves, and I recognize his white hand. I saw it at Stockholm, and observed it so attentively that I should know it again amongst a thousand! See now, M. Christian Waldo, you have a very handsome hand, but it has one peculiarity; the little finger of your left hand is slightly curved under, and you cannot quite straighten it, even when you hold your hand wide open. Do you not remember at Stockholm an officer who saw you rescue a little cabin-boy from three furious drunken sailors? It was down at the park; you had come out of your exhibition, and were still masked. Your servant had run away. The child would have been killed but for you. Do you remember it?”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Christian; “you were the officer who passed. You drew your sword, and put the drunken rascals to flight, and then insisted upon taking me with you in your carriage. If it had not been for you I might have been killed.”

“Then there would have been one noble-hearted man the less,” said Larrson. “Won’t you give me one more shake of the hand, as you did then?”

“With all my heart!” said Christian, grasping the major’s hand.

Then, removing his mask, he said to M. Goefle:

“It is not my custom to hide my face from persons who inspire me with confidence and affection.”

“What!” exclaimed the major and his lieutenant, “Christian Goefle, our friend of last night?”

“No; Christian Waldo, who had stolen the name of M. Goefle, and whom M. Goefle has been good enough to pardon for a great impertinence. I recognized you at once last evening, major.”

“Ah, very good! You attended the ball in spite of the prejudices of the baron, who, perhaps, had not had the good taste to invite you?”

“But it is nowhere customary to receive as a guest a person who is paid by the master of the house to entertain his guests. I should really have had no reason to complain if I had been put out of doors, and it was folly in me to expose myself to such a danger. Still, I had an excuse; my object in travelling is to observe the countries through which I pass, so as to remember and describe them. I am a sort of note-taking scribbler and observer; by which I do not mean, however, a diplomatic spy. I study the fine arts and sciences even more than manners and customs, but I am interested in all sorts of things; and as I have seen something of society elsewhere, I took a fancy to behold it once more in all its luxury--a strange anomaly--in the midst of the mountains and lakes and ice of a country that is apparently inaccessible. But my face seems greatly to have displeased the baron, and accordingly I wore my mask at his house to-day. You advised me last evening not to return thither at all.”

“And we should so advise you still, dear Christian,” said the major, “if the baron had remembered the incident of last night, but his illness appears to have made him forget it. However, look out for his servants. Cover your face again, and talk French, for here are some of them now, bringing us the punch; they may have seen you at the ball.”

A vast silver bowl, full of flaming punch, was now placed upon the table of rough granite, and the major did the honors with much spirit; but M. Goefle, an instant before so animated, had suddenly fallen into a brown study, and, as in the morning, seemed to be divided between the desire of making merry and that of solving some problem.

“What are you thinking about, my dear uncle?” said Christian, filling his glass. “Do you blame me for having thrown aside my incognito before these good friends?”

“By no means,” answered the lawyer; “and if you permit, I will repeat your story succinctly to these gentlemen, so as to convince them that they are right in admitting you to their friendship.”

“Yes, yes! the history of Christian Waldo!” cried the two officers. “It must be very curious; and if it ought to be kept secret, we swear upon our honor--”

“But it is too long,” said Christian. “I am going to stop here at least two days longer. Let us appoint a rendezvous where it will be safer and warmer.”

“Right,” said M. Goefle. “Gentlemen, come and see us at Stollborg to-morrow; we will have dinner or supper together.”

“But to-morrow,” replied the major, “is the bear-hunt. Will you not come, both of you?”

“Both? No; I am no hunter, and I don’t like bears. And it is not in Christian’s line, either. Suppose a bear should bite off one of his hands; he finds two none too many to work his marionettes. Show me your hand, Christian. That is a singular crook of your little finger. I never noticed it. It is from a hurt, is it not?”

“No,” said Christian; “I was born so.”

And holding out his left hand, he added: