Part 9

“Mountebank or not, he is an extraordinary man,” replied the major, “and a man of genuine nobility of character, too, which is more! Last month, at Stockholm, I myself saw him fight three furious drunken sailors, one of whom had been cruelly abusing a poor cabin-boy, when Christian Waldo, indignant at the cowardly outrage, rescued his victim. On another occasion, this Christian threw himself into the midst of a fire to save an old woman; and every day he gave away almost all he received to persons who excited his pity. Indeed, it was said that the people of the suburbs were so enthusiastic about him, that he had to leave secretly in order to avoid being carried in a triumphal procession.”

“And also,” observed Margaret, “to avoid being obliged to remove his mask; for the authorities began to feel uneasy about an incognito so very popular, and they fancied he might be some Russian agent who was preparing the ground in this way, so that when the time came he could excite a sedition.”

“Do you believe,” said Cristiano, “that this funny fellow--for it appears that he is a funny fellow--is a Russian spy?”

“I? No, I don’t believe it,” replied Margaret. “I am not one of those people who prefer to think that goodness and charity cover wicked designs.”

“But his mask,” said one of the young ladies, who had been eagerly listening to the officers; “why does he always wear a black mask when he enters his theatre and leaves it? Is it to represent the Italian harlequin?”

“No, for he does not appear himself in the representation which he exhibits to the public. There is some reason, which no person knows.”

“Perhaps,” observed Cristiano, gravely, “it is to hide a leprosy, or something of the kind.”

“Some say his nose is cut off,” remarked one of the young people.

“And others, again,” added a third, “say that he is the handsomest young fellow in the world; and that he has permitted himself to be seen in the faubourg, and by some persons with whom he has formed a friendship.”

“It would appear,” resumed the major, “that he does not wear his mask at all within his own establishment; but reports are very conflicting about his face. A young boatwoman, who was almost ill with curiosity, managed to induce him to remove the mask, and fell quite ill with fright at seeing a death’s head.”

“Certainly this Waldo must be the devil himself,” said Margaret, “if he can appear as a handsome young man or a frightful spectre. Young ladies, don’t you all want to see him?”

“Do you, Margaret?”

“Let’s all confess that we are wild to see him, and that at the same time we are terribly afraid!”

“They say he is coming here, do they not?” asked one of the young girls.

“He is here now, according to the latest accounts,” answered the major.

“What, really?” cried Margaret; “has he come already? Shall we see him? Is he in the ball-room now?”

“Oh,” said Cristiano, “that would be rather a difficult matter.”

“Difficult? Why?”

“Because a mountebank would not venture to present himself in the character of an invited guest, among such a company as this.”

“Bah!” said the major; “it seems the fellow is not afraid to do anything. His mask, his exhibition, and his name, belong together; but it is asserted, and it seems quite probable, that, under another name, and without any mask, he comes and goes as he likes, and goes all over Stockholm; and that, in the public promenades and most frequented taverns, those who talk about him can never be certain that he is not just at their elbow, or perhaps the very person they are speaking to.”

“But then,” said Cristiano, “how do we know that he is not even in this very room?”

“Oh no!” answered Margaret, though not until she had glanced all round the room, “all of us who are here know each other.”

“But I? No one knows me? Perhaps I am Christian Waldo!”

“Then where is your death’s head?” said one of the young girls, laughing. “Without either mask or death’s head, you are only an apocryphal Waldo. And by the way, gentlemen, can any one tell us how it is known that he has arrived?”

“I can tell you,” replied the major, “how I found it out myself. It seems that an unknown person applied for accommodations here, and, the house being full, was directed to the farm-house. He gave his name, and showed the letter in which Johan, the major-domo, by order of his master, the baron, invited him hither for the amusement of the guests here assembled. I don’t know whether they have accommodated him in some corner of the chateau or elsewhere; but it is certain that he has come.”

“Who told you so?”

“The major-domo himself.”

“And he wore his mask?”

“He wore his mask.”

“And is he tall or fat? well formed or bandy?”

“I did not ask any of those questions; for as I saw him with my own eyes at Stockholm--masked, it is true--I know him to be tall, well made, and as lithe as a deer.”

“Probably he may be some ex-rope-dancer,” suggested Cristiano, who appeared to take no more interest in the conversation than politeness required.

“Oh no!” said Margaret; “he has received a capital education. Everybody is struck by the style and wit of his comedies.”

“But how do you know that they are his own?”

“People familiar with all the ancient and modern literatures, assert that nothing in them is stolen; and these little comedies of his--sometimes sentimental, it is said, also--have been a real literary event at Stockholm.”

“Will he exhibit to-morrow, do you think?” was asked on every side.

“It is to be presumed,” replied the major, “but if these young ladies are desirous to know, I shall be very happy to undertake to find him out and inquire.”

“At midnight?” said Cristiano, looking at the clock. “The poor devil is asleep. I believe the Countess Margaret had a more important plan to suggest to the company.”

“Yes, indeed,” cried Margaret. “I want to propose a little ball, all to ourselves. I am a new comer here--a perfect savage, I confess; you have only met me within these two or three days; but every one has been so kind and good to me, that I am not afraid to confess--what M. Goefle will be so good as to tell you--”

“This is it,” said Cristiano. “The Countess Margaret, as she herself just told you, is a perfect savage. She knows nothing in the world, not even how to dance; she is as awkward as possible, and limps at least as much as our illustrious master Stangstadius. Besides, she is clumsy, absent-minded, short-sighted. In fact, it would require a most Christian dose of charity to reconcile one’s self to the idea of dancing with her; for--”

“Enough! enough!” cried Margaret, laughing. “You have done me the honor to describe me with a great deal of humility. Please to accept my thanks, however; for they will all expect something so frightful now, that if I succeed only tolerably well everybody will be enchanted with me. The end of the matter is that I wish to make my first appearance before this small party; and that--if you all say so--we will go and dance in the gallery. The music in the grand saloon will be abundantly loud enough for us to dance by.”

Several of the young men hastened towards Margaret, to ask for her hand. She thanked them, but said that M. Christian Goefle had already devoted himself to be the victim.

“It is quite true, gentlemen,” said Cristiano, gayly, as his gloved hand received the little hand of Margaret; “all please to pity me, and so lead on to the torture.”

Places were taken in an instant, and the quadrille was formed. Margaret begged not to be one of the first four.

“You are curiously agitated,” said Cristiano to her.

“I am,” she replied; “my heart beats as if I were a bird launched out of the nest for the first time, and not quite sure that it has wings at all.”

“The first quadrille,” remarked the adventurer, “is, I see, an important event in the life of a young lady. In a year from now, when you have attended a hundred balls or so, do you suppose you will remember at all the name and face of the humble individual who enjoys the happiness and glory of directing your first dance?”

“Yes, certainly, Monsieur Goefle; the recollection will always be joined to that of the greatest emotions of my life: my fear of the baron, and my joy at being delivered from him, by an effort of courage that I should not have believed myself capable of, and with which I was certainly inspired by your uncle and yourself.”

“But do you know,” said Cristiano, “I am not at all certain of your aversion for the baron?”

“Why not?”

“You are assuredly much more frightened about dancing in public than you were about dancing with him.”

“Yet I did not dance with him, and I am going to dance with you!”

Cristiano involuntarily pressed Margaret’s small fingers; but she thought this merely an intimation that it was time for her to take her place, and, all rosy with pleasure and bashfulness, she stepped forward with him into the joyous circle, where she very quickly found herself entirely at her ease, as her grace and lightness entitled her to be.

“Well, I believe I am not afraid any more,” she said, as they returned to their place, while the other four began the first figure.

“You are a great deal too courageous,” replied Cristiano; “I hoped I should have been of some service, but you have learned so fast how to use your wings, that now you will be flying off with the first comer.”

“It will never be with the baron, though! But tell me why it was that you thought I exaggerated my dislike for him?”

“_Mon Dieu!_ I see that you are passionately fond of balls--that is, of entertainments and luxury; and every passion is followed by certain consequences. Now, if pleasure is the object, wealth is the means of securing it.”

“What? Am I so silly and so homely that I shall never make a rich marriage unless with an old man?”

“Then you admit that you will not marry any one but a rich man?”

“If I should say yes, what would you think of me?”

“I should not think ill of you.”

“I know; I should be doing just as so many others do; and you would not think well of me either.”

This rather delicate discussion was resumed at the third pause of the quartette to which our two young friends belonged. Margaret seemed to want to test Cristiano’s sincerity.

“Confess, now,” she said, “that you despise girls who marry for riches; like Olga, for instance, to whom the baron looks so handsome through the facets of the great diamonds that she dreams about.”

“I despise nothing,” replied the adventurer; “I am naturally tolerant, or else the facets of what virtue I have are dulled by friction with the world. I am enthusiastic for what is superior to the average; and I feel a philosophical indifference to whatever is adapted to the vulgar generality of people.”

“Enthusiastic, do you say? Is not enthusiasm a high price to pay for a thing so natural as disinterestedness? I shall not demand so much of you, Monsieur Goefle; I shall only ask your esteem. I hope you will believe that if I were free to choose, I would consult my heart alone, and not my interest. Even if I could never have any more lace to my sleeves, or satin bows to my dress--even if I could never dance any more in the light of a thousand candles, to the sound of thirty violins, hautboys, and double-basses--I feel that I am capable of making even so immense a sacrifice as that, for the sake of preserving my freedom of opinion and the approbation of my conscience.”

Margaret spoke with enthusiasm. Excited by the dancing, she said just what was in her heart: all the generosity and romance of her nature shone in her brilliant eyes; there was a sort of electrical life and inspiration in her radiant smile; in her attitude, like that of a bird eager to dart upwards again to the clouds; in her lovely fair hair, whose long curls wreathed over her lily-white shoulders as if they were alive; in the heart-felt tone of her voice--in short, in the whole of her charming little person. Cristiano was altogether dazzled, and, without being entirely conscious of what he was saying, he asked Margaret, as if he were dreaming, this strange question:

“You will never permit yourself to love any one not of your own rank, I know. But suppose that, in spite of yourself, you should find your affections drawn towards some poor devil, a person without a name, without a penny--Christian Waldo, for instance--would you not be extremely mortified, and consider it your duty to stifle your inclinations?”

“Christian Waldo!” said Margaret. “Why Christian Waldo? You choose a very strange person as an example!”

“Extremely so, and I do it on purpose. When one proceeds by an antithesis--But come; this is what I mean. Suppose that this Christian Waldo--whom I do not know at all--really possesses the courage, the intelligence, the generosity that have just been attributed to him here; and in addition to his other endowments, the poverty which must be the faithful attendant of his wanderings; and a name which, I presume, he does not claim in virtue of any old parchments.”

“And with his death’s head--”

“No, without his death’s head. Well, suppose that you had no choice of marriage, except between him and the Baron de Waldemora--”

“My choice would be very easily made. I would not marry at all!”

“Unless, of course, it should turn out that Christian’s mask concealed a young and handsome prince, who was obliged to conceal himself for reasons of state?”

“A fine idea that is!” said Margaret; “another Czarewitch Ivan escaped out of his prison, or another Philip III. escaped from his assassins!”

“In that case, apocryphal or not, he would find grace in your eyes.”

“What do you want me to say? An Italian buffoon is really not a good standard of comparison, if you are in earnest.”

“Too true,” replied Cristiano, “and here is the finale; let us tread it lightly, for it is the handful of earth cast upon the romance entitled ‘The First Quadrille’!”

But it was not ordained that this quadrille should end according to choregraphic laws. M. Stangstadius, having at last finished the copious repast, which he called a mere snack between the supper and the after-supper, just at this moment came out from the refreshment-room. Absorbed in some lofty conception awakened in his mind by the agreeable effort of prosperous digestion, and coming upon the young dancers in his progress, he marched unceremoniously straight through them, running against the cavaliers who were just exhibiting their graces in the “forward two,” and treading on the little feet of the ladies as if they had been so many pebbles. His extravagant limping rendered his gait so ridiculous that every one burst out laughing. The dance was quite broken up; and the young couples, taking hold of each other’s hands, executed a rapid and noisy _rondo_ about the chevalier of the polar star, who, not wishing to be behind the others in grace, undertook to execute a hopping movement in the opposite direction, to the immense amusement of the company. But, sad to tell, the laughing and singing became so noisy as to attract attention in the grand saloon.

The orchestra had come to a pause in the music, but the young people did not notice it, and kept on singing and dancing around Stangstadius, who compared himself to Saturn in the middle of his ring.

Countess Elfride hastened to the spot, and, beholding the sudden cure of her niece, fell into a rage, which this time she could not restrain.

“My dear Margaret,” she said, shortly, in a sharp tone, “you are exceedingly imprudent. You forget your sprain; it is extremely dangerous to go on in such a way. I have just seen the baron’s physician, and he prescribes entire quiet to-night. Have the goodness to retire at once with your governess. She will assist you to go to bed, and put on some compresses. Believe me, you had best do so.”

She added in a low tone--

“Obey me!”

Margaret, who had been rosy with delight, turned quite pale, and, whether from anger or mortification, could not restrain two great tears which glittered a moment on her long eye-lashes, and rolled down her cheeks. The Countess Elfride snatched her hand and carried her off, saying, in an under-tone:

“I think you have taken an oath to do nothing to-night but make a fool of yourself. Now you must pay for it. I excused you for not dancing with our entertainer, for he really believes you were in pain; but after that, to dance with another person is to offer the baron an unheard-of, deliberate insult, and I will not allow you to keep up such conduct until he has perceived it.”

Cristiano followed along behind Margaret, trying to think of some means of disarming or diverting the wrath of her aunt, if he should perceive any favorable moment for addressing her, when he saw the baron approaching, and paused, leaning against the pedestal of a statue, to see what would take place among the three.

“What!” said the baron, “you are taking away your niece? It is too early. I thought she was just beginning to enjoy herself in my house. Permit me to beseech your indulgence for her; and since she has been dancing--as I am told--may I now beg her to dance with me? She certainly cannot refuse me now, and I am sure she will consent with pleasure.”

“If you insist upon it, baron, I consent,” said the countess.

“Come, Margaret, thank the baron, and go with him. Do you not see that he is offering you his arm for the polonaise?”

Margaret seemed to hesitate; her eyes met those of Cristiano, who did not know which feeling predominated--his desire to have her remain, or his fear that she would yield. Perhaps the last sentiment was most distinctly expressed in his looks, for Margaret answered steadily that she was engaged.

“To whom, pray?” cried the countess.

“Yes; to whom?” repeated the baron, with a singular inflection in his voice, and with a calmness that, Margaret thought, had something ominous in it.

She looked down, and was silent; for she did not understand what was passing in the mind of her persecutor, from whom she had thought herself quite safe.

The baron’s only object was to torment her and compromise her. He saw perfectly well her aversion for him, and cordially reciprocated it. Coldly hard-hearted and revengeful, he affected to jest; but said, speaking loud enough to be heard by many inquisitive ears:

“Where is the happy mortal with whom I must dispute you? for I certainly will do it. I have the right.”

“You have the right?” exclaimed Margaret, amazed and indignant; “you, baron?”

“Yes, I,” he answered, with cold, cruel irony; “you know very well I have. Come, where is this rival who is going to carry you off to dance from under my very beard?”

“Here!” exclaimed Cristiano, losing his self-control, and advancing upon the baron in a threatening manner, while all the spectators, stupefied into silence, looked on with curiosity and amazement.

It was very well known that the baron, in spite of his sluggish and blasé manner, was extremely irascible, and indomitably proud. Every one expected a violent scene; and, in fact, a greenish pallor overspread instantaneously the baron’s face, and he opened and shut his large and short-sighted eyes, as if to emit a flash of lightning for the annihilation of the audacious unknown who defied him so openly. But instantly the blood rushed back to his forehead, on which one large, engorged vein rose like a ridge, while his lips became more livid than the rest of his face. An indistinct cry escaped him, his arms extended convulsively, and he fell forward, exclaiming:

“There it is! There it is!”

He would have fallen upon the floor, had not twenty arms interposed. He had fainted; and they carried him to a window, and unceremoniously broke the panes to give him fresh air. Olga made her way through the crowd to bear him assistance. Margaret disappeared as if her aunt had whisked her off by conjuration; and Cristiano was rapidly led away by Major Osmund Larrson, who had taken a great liking to him.

“Come along with me,” said the good-natured young fellow; “I must speak with you.”

In a few moments Cristiano and Osmund were alone in an antique room on the ground-floor, warmed by an immense fire-place.

“We can smoke here,” said the major. “Here’s a rack, well filled; suit yourself with a pipe, and here’s the tobacco. That beer on the table is the best in the country, and here’s some capital old Dantzic brandy. My comrades will be down in a moment to tell us the latest news of the affair.”

“My dear major,” said Cristiano, “I see you think me extremely angry, but you are mistaken. Let the baron get over his attack; I will smoke here with you until he is ready for an explanation.”

“But for what purpose? to fight a duel?” said the major. “Bah! The baron never fights; he never has fought. You do not know him at all, then?”

“Not at all,” said Cristiano, calmly, as he smoked his pipe, and poured out a large goblet of beer. “Have I really, like a true Don Quixote, attacked a windmill? I did not know that I was making such a fool of myself.”

“You have done nothing of the kind, my dear friend. Quite the contrary, many persons will think that you have been exceedingly audacious to oppose the Snow Man; and certainly that is my opinion.”

“I should have thought that a man of snow would easily thaw.”

“That is not the case in this country. Men of that kind remain standing a long time.”

“I have been heroic, then, without knowing it.”

“You must try and not find it out at your own expense. The baron does not fight, it is true; but he takes his revenge for all that, and he never forgets an injury. It doesn’t matter where you may be, he will pursue you with his hate; and it doesn’t matter what career you may want to follow, he will put obstacles in your way. If you get into some difficulty, as may happen to any high-spirited young fellow, he will contrive to make it dangerous for you; and if he once has you thrown into prison, there you will remain. My advice to you, therefore, is to depart at once, and to remain constantly on your guard as long as you live; at least, unless the devil chooses to wring the neck of his crony this very night, under the pretence of a fit of apoplexy.”

“Do you think the baron so ill?” inquired Cristiano.

“We shall soon know all about it. Here is my lieutenant, Erwin Osburn, who is my best friend, and who likes you as well as I do. How now, lieutenant, what is the latest news of the Snow Man? Are there any signs that the thaw is approaching?”

“No, it turns out to be nothing at all,” replied the lieutenant; “or, anyhow, so he pretends. He went to his room for a moment, and returned with such a good color, that I suspect him of daubing his pale cheeks with rouge. His eyes are dull, however, and he hesitates in speaking. I was curious enough to go up to him; and taking this as a mark of respect, he condescended to inform me that it was his wish that the dancing should go on, and that people should pay no further attention to him. He is seated in the grand drawing-room, and what convinces me that he is more uncomfortable than he confesses is, that he seems entirely to have forgotten the outbreak of rage that threw him into this fine state, and that nobody ventures to remind him of it.”

“Then the ball will go on,” said the major, “and you will see that it will be gayer than ever. It seems as if the people here wanted to shake off the thought of some approaching catastrophe, or as if the baron’s heirs could not contain their joy at finding that he is really ill, and has been so for some time. But you must tell us one thing, Christian Goefle. Under what form did you appear to the baron? or what spell did you cast over him? Are you a ghost or a sorcerer? Are you the _man of the lake_, who fascinates people with a look of his icy eyes? What is there in common between the baron and yourself, and why is it that he should have uttered, in swooning, his famous exclamation, which I heard to-day for the first time: ‘There it is! there it is!’”