“Are you in such great haste never to hear me spoken of again? Very well, imagine that your wish is accomplished; that I have already embarked for America at least, and am fleeing under full sail from my terrible enemy, while shedding a few tears at the memory of that first quadrille—the last, too, that I shall ever dance—”
“With me, not with others?”
“Who knows? The I who is speaking to you is a shade, a phantom, a mere reminiscence of what happened yesterday. The other I, about taking his departure, is the sport of the waves and of destiny. I care about him as much as I do for an inhabitant of the moon.”
“Good heavens! how gay you are, Monsieur Goefle! Do you know I am not so at all?”
“True,” said Christian, struck with Margaret’s sad expression; “I am ashamed to have spoken of myself, when I ought to have been expressing my anxiety about the consequences of the events of last evening. Will you be good enough to answer me, if I venture even now to make inquiries of you?”
“Oh, you are well entitled to do so, since chance has so fully informed you about my affairs already. My aunt reproved me severely last evening, and Mademoiselle Potin had orders to pack my trunks and take me back to Dalby to-day; but this morning everything is changed, and, after a private interview with the baron, who, she says, has quite recovered his health and good spirits, it was decided that I should remain, and should have nothing to do to-day, but to think about my toilet for this evening. By the way, have you heard that Christian Waldo is actually here? They say, indeed, that he is stopping at Stollborg. You must have met him, in that case. How is it—have you seen him?”
“Certainly.”
“Without his mask? Oh, how does he look? Has he really a death’s head?”
“Worse than that. He has a wooden head!”
“Oh no! You are joking.”