Part 4

“An advocate!” thought the adventurer. “Well, he will talk, anyhow! A lawyer must always have a little wit and talent. He may prove an agreeable companion if he is sensible enough not to judge a man by his coat. But where can he be hidden? He is some one, I suppose, invited to the festivities at the Chateau de Waldemora, who, like myself, found the house full, or who fancied stopping in this romantic manor. Or he may be the business man of the rich baron, for it is scarcely likely that citizens are admitted into the society of the nobles in this country of castes and prejudices. It is nothing to me! The lawyer has certainly gone out, in any event. He may be chatting with the old overseer, or perhaps he is in the double-bedded room that we were told about, although I see no signs of a door. Shall I look for him? Who knows that he has not gone to bed? Yes, that is most probable. The people here wished to wait upon him, but he declined everything; contenting himself with sweetmeats, and longing only for his bed. May he sleep in peace, the worthy man! For my part, I shall do very well in this large arm-chair, and if I am cold--hallo! here is a magnificent cloak lined with fur, and a sable travelling cap, that will protect body and ears from the frost. Let me see whether they will be comfortable! Yes, very indeed,” thought Cristiano, throwing the cloak over his shoulders, and donning the cap; “and that is lucky for me! What a strange puzzle life is! When I think that I have followed a respectable profession for ten years, and yet have not a good cloak to cover my poor body, now that I am lost in the polar regions, I can scarcely believe my senses!”

Cristiano had already placed his booty, consisting of an appetizing Hamburg tongue, a bear’s leg smoked to perfection, and a superb piece of smoked and salted salmon, upon the table.

He was just going to throw off the doctor’s travelling suit so as to eat more at his leisure, when he thought he heard the tinkling of bells passing under the only window of the bear-room. This window, which was opposite the stove, was large, and had a double sash, the universal practice in all comfortable dwellings, whether ancient or modern, in northern countries. However, the outside sash showed how Stollborg had been neglected. Almost all the glass panes were broken, and, as the wind had ceased, you could hear distinctly the noises from the outside; the masses of recently fallen snow breaking off from the old solid beds and sinking with a dull, mysterious boom down the perpendicular rocks, the distant shouts proceeding from the farm on the shore of the lake, and the melancholy howling of the dogs, saluting with unintelligible maledictions the red disk of the rising moon.

Cristiano, who felt curious to see the sleigh which was cutting a path over the frozen lake so near his refuge, opened the inner sash and thrust his head through one of the broken panes. He saw distinctly a fantastic vision gliding along at the foot of the rock. Two magnificent white horses, driven by a bearded coachman dressed like a Russian, were drawing lightly a sleigh that flashed and glittered with a shimmering light, like a precious stone. The lantern on this elegant vehicle was unusually high, and looked like a star swept along by a whirlwind, or a will-o’-the-wisp furiously chasing the sleigh. Its light, thrown forward by a reflector of red gold, cast warm gleams across the blue moonlight on the snow, and painted with rainbow hues the vapor streaming from the nostrils and sides of the horses. Nothing could have been more graceful and poetic than this wheelless car, which might have been that of the fairy of the lake, passing like a dream under Cristiano’s dazzled eyes. It is true that he had seen sleighs of all kinds, from the most luxurious to the most simple, in passing through Stockholm and other cities of the country, but none of them had seemed to him so picturesque and so singular as the one now stopping at the foot of the rock. For, he could no longer doubt it, a new visitor, and this time an opulent one, was coming to take possession of Stollborg, or to reconnoitre that silent retreat.

“The sleigh has afforded me a beautiful spectacle,” thought Cristiano; “but the devil take those who are in it! Here, I wager, is another interruption to the peaceful supper I was promising myself.”

The rash imprecation died upon his lips! A sweet and really melodious voice, a woman’s voice, which, according to Cristiano, could only belong to a charming woman, proceeded from the sleigh. The voice, speaking in the dialect of the province, which he did not understand, made this remark:

“Do you think, Peterson, that your horses can ascend to the door of the old chateau?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the large coachman, muffled up in furs, “this evening’s snow will make it a little troublesome, but others have been before us already. I see the fresh tracks. Don’t be afraid. We will get there.”

The approach to Stollborg, which M. Goefle had called a _little rock_, was an actual natural staircase, consisting of layers of schistose rock of unequal thickness. In summer it would have been enough to disable horses and carriages; but winter in the north renders every road practicable and every traveller intrepid. A thick bed of frozen snow, solid and smooth as marble, fills up all hollows, and levels all inequalities. The horses, shod for the purpose, climb dangerous heights, and descend boldly the most precipitous declivities; sleighs are not often upset, and accidents, when they do occur, are seldom dangerous. In a few moments this one stopped at the door of the little chateau.

“You must ring cautiously,” said the sweet voice to the coachman; “you know, Peterson, that I don’t want to be seen by the old steward, who, perhaps, tells everything that happens to his master.”

“Oh, he is so deaf!” replied the coachman, jumping to the ground. “Ulph won’t say a word, for he is my friend; provided always that he chooses to open the door. He is a little timid at night, and no wonder, the chateau--”

Peterson was probably going to tell about the ghosts of Stollborg, but he did not have time to continue. The door opened as if of itself, and Cristiano, as well muffled up as the coachman, thanks to the lawyer’s cloak and fur cap, appeared at the threshold.

“No matter, here he is,” said the sweet voice. “Stand aside, Peterson, and don’t forget to take off the bells from your horses; I begged you so particularly to attend to it. Don’t be impatient, poor fellow, I won’t keep you waiting long.”

“Take your time, mademoiselle,” replied the devoted servant, wiping the icicles from his beard, “it is very mild this evening.”

Cristiano did not understand a word of this dialogue, but he listened with none the less delight to the sweet voice, and he offered his arm to a little lady so well wrapped up in ermine, that she looked like a flake of snow rather than a human being. She spoke to him at once, but still in Dalecarlian, so that he could not guess what she said, although it was evident from her intonation, sweet as it was, that she was giving him some orders. She mistook him for the keeper of old Stollborg; and as the voice of command, in all countries alike, requires no other answer than submissive gestures, Cristiano did very well, without understanding and replying, during his short walk with the little lady, whom he conducted along the wooden gallery leading from the door of the court to that of the donjon.

In taking her to the bear-room, Cristiano obeyed instinctively his natural hospitality, without knowing whether she would thank him for his kindness. In the same way he had been led instinctively to go and meet her by curiosity, and perhaps also a sentiment of gallantry, which was still all-powerful at this epoch, over men of all ages and classes.

The young lady, who had followed her guide unsuspiciously, started with surprise when she found herself in the famous room.

“Is this the bear-room?” she said, rather anxiously; “I have never been here.”

Cristiano, who did not understand a word, made no reply; and looking at him by the light of the only candle placed upon the table, she cried, in Swedish:

“Good heavens! This is not Ulphilas! To whom have I the honor of speaking? Can it be M. Goefle in person?”

The young man understood and spoke Swedish remarkably well. He remembered instantly the name upon the lawyer’s valise, and saw--thanks to the disguise of his cloak--that he would be able to amuse himself, if only for a moment, by playing his part. Singular circumstances, that we shall learn about in due time, had given him perfect command of the Swedish language; but he was a stranger in the country. Utterly isolated, and bound by no ties to any human being, he was not obliged to be circumspect in his behavior, and considered it only natural to divert himself whenever he had a chance. He replied boldly, therefore, at a venture:

“Yes, madame, I am Monsieur Goefle, Doctor of Laws of the Faculty of Lund, practising law at Gevala.”

As he spoke, he laid his hand upon a spectacle-case containing a pair of green spectacles, which the lawyer was in the habit of wearing when he travelled, to protect his eyes from the fatiguing glare of the snow. Delighted with this discovery, which the special providence that watches over children and hair-brained mad-caps seemed to have thrust under his very nose, he put them on, and felt perfectly disguised.

“Ah, monsieur,” said the unknown, “I ask a thousand pardons, but I did not see you. I have never had the pleasure of meeting you, and I took you for the keeper of Stollborg. You must have laughed to hear me ordering him to inform you that I requested a moment’s interview, and promising him a fee for so doing.”

Cristiano bowed respectfully.

“Will you allow me, then,” resumed the unknown, “to converse with you about an affair--a little embarrassing--a little delicate?--”

These two words delighted the adventurer to such a degree, that he forgot all about his intense momentary vexation at having his supper delayed by this unexpected visit, and only thought how much he should like to see the face of his visitor, which was buried in her ermine hood.

“I am ready to listen to you,” he said, in a grave tone; “a lawyer is a confessor. But are you not afraid, if you keep on your cloak, that you will catch cold when you go out?”

“No,” said the unknown, accepting the arm-chair which her host offered her, “I am a true mountaineer; I never catch cold.”

She added artlessly:

“Besides, you will think, perhaps, that I am not suitably attired for the conference that I have just solicited with a dignified and respectable person like you, Monsieur Goefle; I am in ball-dress.”

“Good gracious!” cried Cristiano, thoughtlessly; “I am not a ferocious old Lutheran! A ball-dress does not shock me at all; above all, when it is worn by a pretty person.”

“You are very gallant, Monsieur Goefle; but I don’t know that I am pretty and well-dressed; I do know, however, that I ought not to hide my face from you, for any distrust upon my part would be an insult to your loyalty, to which, in requesting your advice and protection, I have just made appeal.”

The unknown threw back her hood, and Cristiano saw the most charming head imaginable. It was a pure Swedish type, eyes of a true sapphire blue, quantities of light golden hair of extreme fineness, one of those exquisitely pure and fresh complexions which are never seen in equal perfection among other races; and, just visible through the half open pelisse, a slender neck, shoulders of snow, and a slight, flexible form. This sweet vision was chaste as infancy, for the little visitor was only sixteen years old, and had not done growing.

Cristiano did not pride himself upon his austerity; he was a man of his time, but he was superior to the hazardous career into which he had been thrown by circumstances. He was a person of intelligence and natural delicacy. He gazed with quiet friendliness upon this Rose of the North; and, if he had had any treacherous idea in drawing her into this bear’s den, it was quickly replaced by the anticipation of an adventure which, however gay and romantic, could not fail to be as honest as the amiable and frank countenance of his young guest.

“Monsieur Goefle,” resumed the latter, encouraged by the respectful attitude of the pretended lawyer, “now that you have seen my face, which I hope is not that of a wicked person, I must tell you my name. You will know it perfectly well. But it distresses me to see you standing, when I am seated upon the only arm-chair in the room. I know the respect that is due to a man of your worth--I was going to say of your age, for I have always thought (I don’t know why) that you were very old; while, on the contrary, you seem younger than the baron.”

“You flatter me,” replied Cristiano, pulling his furred cap, with its ear-pieces, down over his eyes and cheeks; “I am old, very old! It is only the tip of my nose that can appear young, and you must excuse me for not uncovering in your presence. Your visit surprised me; I had taken off my wig, and must hide my bald crown as I can.”

“Don’t speak of it, Monsieur Goefle, and please to sit down.”

“With your permission I will remain standing near the stove, on account of my gout, which pains me,” replied Cristiano, who was standing with his head in the shadow, while the feeble light of the only candle was thrown entirely upon his visitor. “To whom have I the honor--”

“Yes, yes,” she replied eagerly. “Oh! you know me well, although you have never seen me. I am Margaret.”

“Indeed!” cried Cristiano, in a tone that signified, “I know no more than I did before.”

Happily, the young girl was impatient to explain herself.

“Yes, yes,” she replied, “Margaret Elveda, the niece of your client.”

“Ah, the niece of my client--”

“Countess Elveda, sister of my father, the colonel, who was the friend of the unhappy baron!”

“The unhappy baron--”

“Ah, _mon Dieu_! Baron Adelstan, whose name I cannot pronounce without emotion in this room, who was assassinated by the miners of Falun--or by some one else! for, after all, monsieur, who knows? Are you very certain that it was done by the workmen of the mine?”

“As to that, mademoiselle, I cannot say; if any one has a right to swear upon his honor that he does not know anything about it, it is your humble servant,” replied Cristiano, in an impressive tone, that seemed forcibly to strike the young girl, who gave his words her own interpretation.

“Oh, Monsieur Goefle,” she said earnestly, “I was perfectly sure that you shared my suspicions. No nothing will ever persuade me that all these tragic deaths that were talked about, and which are still talked about, in whispers--but are we quite alone? can no one overhear us? This is such a serious matter, Monsieur Goefle!”

“In fact it seems serious,” thought Cristiano, assuming the tottering gait of an old man, and going to see whether the outside door was shut; “the only trouble is that I don’t understand it all.”

He glanced around the room, but failed, as before, to notice the door of the guard-chamber, which was closed between M. Goefle and our two friends.

“Well, monsieur,” resumed the young lady, “can you believe that my aunt wants to make me marry a man whom I cannot help regarding as the assassin of his family?”

As Cristiano knew nothing at all about the facts in question, he tried to draw out an explanation by chiming in with the views of his new client.

“Your aunt must be a mad-woman,” he said, a little cavalierly, “or something worse.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur Goefle, she is my aunt, and it is my duty to respect her! I only accuse her of being blind or prejudiced.”

“Blindness and prejudice be it then; it is really a matter of no importance. What I see most clearly is, that she is trying to force your inclination.”

“Oh! there is no doubt about that, for I have a horror of the baron! Did she not tell you so?”

“Quite the contrary! I supposed--”

“Oh, Monsieur Goefle, how could you suppose that I, at my age, would feel the least liking for a man fifty-five years old?”

“What! Is the person they want you to marry fifty-five years old into the bargain?”

“You are only pretending to be in doubt, Monsieur Goefle! You cannot help knowing his age; you are his lawyer, and, it is said, also his devoted friend--but I don’t believe that at all.”

“The deuce! You are right. May I be hung if I care a fig for him! But what is the name of the gentleman?”

“The baron? You do not know whom I am talking of?”

“How should I? There are so many barons in the world.”

“But my aunt has told you--”

“A truce to what she has told me! How can I remember all that your aunt says? She doesn’t know her own mind, perhaps.”

“Oh, pardon me; she knows it only too well! She has a will of iron. She must have told you about her plans, for she declares that you approve them.”

“I approve of sacrificing a charming child like you to a dotard?”

“There now, you see that you know the baron’s age perfectly well.”

“But once again, what baron do you mean?”

“What baron? Is it possible that it can be necessary for me to mention the Snow Man?”

“Indeed! The Snow Man? Very well, I must confess that I am no wiser than I was before.”

“How, Monsieur Goefle, you do not know the surname of the most powerful, the richest, and at the same time the most wicked and hateful of your clients, the Baron Olaus de Waldemora?”

“What, the proprietor of this chateau?”

“Certainly, and of the new chateau on the other shore of the lake; the owner, moreover, of innumerable iron mines, lead mines, and alum mines, and of several valleys, forests and mountains, without referring to his fields, cattle, farms and lakes; the seigneur, in a word, of a good tenth part of Dalecarlia. It is because of his vast possessions that my aunt is at me, from morning until night, to make me forget that he is old, sickly, and perhaps burdened with crimes.”

“Good God!” cried Cristiano, in amazement, “I have accepted the hospitality of an agreeable person!”

“You are laughing at me, Monsieur Goefle! You don’t believe in his guilt, and you were jesting when you said just now--”

“All that I said I am ready to repeat. But I should like to know of what crimes you accuse my host?”

“I don’t accuse him; public rumor has accustomed me to regard him as the assassin of his father, his brother, and his sister-in law, the unhappy Hilda--”

“Nothing more than that?”

“You know what is said, Monsieur Goefle; you were commissioned, were you not?--Oh, no, it must have been your father, who was Baron Olaus’s lawyer at that time. The baron brought forward deeds of some sort. Nothing could ever be proved against him; but the truth was never known, and never will be known,--at least until the dead come from the tomb to tell it.”

“That sometimes happens,” replied Cristiano, smiling.

“Really, do you believe?--”

“Oh, that is one of our professional phrases, when an unexpected proof is discovered, you know--a lost letter, a chance word, long forgotten.”

“Yes, I know, but nothing was ever found, and for fifteen or twenty years the whole thing has been buried in silence and forgetfulness. Baron Olaus was suspected and hated at first, but he has succeeded in making himself feared, and that tells the whole story. At present, he carries his presumption and confidence so far that he wishes to marry again. Ah! may God preserve me from being the object of his pursuit! It is said that he loved his wife devotedly; but as for the Baroness Hilda, it is generally believed--”

“What is believed?”

“I see that these peasant’s stories have never reached you, Monsieur Goefle, or else you laugh at them, since you have quietly taken up your quarters in this room.”

“In fact there is some story connected with it,” replied Cristiano, as a remark that he had recently heard flashed into his mind. “The people at the farm said to me this evening,--‘Go there, and let us know in the morning how you passed the night.’ The room is haunted, then, by a goblin--a ghost--”

“There must be something strange here, whether a phantom or a real being, for old M. Stenson himself believes so, and the baron also, perhaps. It is said that he has never entered the room since his sister-in-law’s death, and he has had a certain door walled up--”

“Yonder,” said Cristiano, pointing to the top of the staircase.

“It is possible,” replied Margaret, “I don’t know. It is all very mysterious, and I thought you would be well informed about matters that I am ignorant of. I don’t believe in ghosts. Still, I shouldn’t like to see one, and nothing in the world would induce me to sleep here, as you are going to do. As for the baron, whether the story of the diamond ring is true or false--”

“What! another story--”

“Yes, and the most improbable one of all, I confess; I cannot help laughing as I repeat it. They say, in the cottages of the neighborhood, that the baron loved his wife--who was as wicked himself--so well, that he gave her body, when she died, to an alchemist, who reduced it in an alembic, and turned it into a great black diamond. It is certain, at any rate, that he wears a strange ring upon his finger, which I cannot look at without terror and disgust.”

“That is a good proof!” said Cristiano, laughing; “but only think if a similar fate should be reserved for you. They would find nothing, I know, in the alembic where you were baked, but a pretty rose diamond of the purest water, but that would not be any more cheerful for you, and I advise you not to run the risk of being crystallized.”

Margaret burst out laughing, but it frightened her to hear her fresh, childlike voice echoed mysteriously through the old room. She became sad, and said in a tone of discouragement:

“Well, enough of that! I see, Monsieur Goefle, that you are an amiable and witty man, as every one says; but I was very much mistaken in supposing that you would sympathize with me, and would be my guide and protector. You agree with my aunt, you consider all I have told you a mere dream, and you reject the cry of my heart. May God have pity upon me! I have no longer any hope but in Him.”

“Wait a little!” replied Cristiano, moved to see great tears rolling over rosy cheeks which had just been so smiling. “Why don’t you depend more upon yourself? What have you told me, after all? You announce that you have a confession to make of a delicate nature and all it amounts to is that your friends wish you to marry a man who does not please you, and towards whom you feel an antipathy. I thought you were going to confide some love affair to me. You need not blush at that. A love may be pure and honorable, even although ambitious parents disapprove of it. A father and mother may be mistaken, and yet it is painful to resist their influence. You are an orphan! Yes, you must be, since you are dependent upon an old aunt--I call her old, and you shake your head! Assume that she is young--she claims to be so, no doubt, and I, it seems, am no longer a judge, for I considered her old. If she is young, she ought all the more to be sent--I will not say to mind her own business, but to reflect to some purpose, while you ask the advice of some old friend, M. Goefle, for instance--that is to say, myself--some one, in a word, who can put you in a way to marry the happy mortal whom you prefer.”

“But I assure you, dear M. Goefle, that I do not love any one,” replied Margaret. “Oh God! it would only need that to complete my misfortunes! It is quite enough to be obliged to endure the importunities of a person you hate.”

“You are not sincere, my dear child,” replied Cristiano, who was playing his part so well and naturally that he really was beginning to feel as if he were M. Goefle in person; “you are afraid that I will repeat what you confide to me to the countess, my client.”