He once more pressed M. Goefle’s hands, took a seat near the fire, and, either in reality or by design, relapsed into entire deafness. M. Goefle, to divert his mind, and hoping, after a little, to draw him again into a confidential mood, endeavored to talk with him about the lawsuit on which the baron had consulted him in the morning. But this time he was obliged to write what he wanted to say, when the old man answered with his usual clearness. His opinion was that the mineral property of the mountain-track in litigation belonged to the Count de Rosenstein, a neighbor of the baron. He stated good grounds for this belief, and, after searching among his papers, which were all arranged and marked with the greatest care, he laid out the actual proofs. M. Goefle observed that this was his own opinion, and that he should be forced to have a disagreement with the baron, if the latter should persist in seeking to employ him in a bad cause. He added some reflections as to the presumed wicked character of his client, but Stenson showed no signs of understanding these allusions; and as it is impossible to take a person by surprise in a written conversation, M. Goefle had to give up the idea of questioning him further.
On his way back to the bear-room, the lawyer considered whether he ought to communicate to Christian the understanding he had entered into with Stenson, and concluded that he was, on the whole, bound to silence. He was, besides, not just now in a confidential humor. Agitated by a thousand strange thoughts and contradictory suppositions, his brain was as actively at work as if he had just been intrusted with a difficult suit full of important questions. The exact contrary was the case, for Stenson had prohibited him from even feeling curiosity. This interdict, however, was altogether null; M. Goefle could not at all impose silence upon the tumult of his hypotheses. However, Christian’s attitude made it easy for him to be reserved. Far from questioning him, the young man had forgotten all about their last conversation, and was absorbed by his comedy. He was, moreover, very much discouraged; and when the lawyer asked if he had arranged to do without his assistant, he answered that he had been trying in vain to do so for the last hour. He could, it is true, dispense with his services after a fashion; but at the risk of many accidents and undesirable omissions in the presentation of the piece. On the whole, he would have to make such heavy drafts on his brain and strength, and undergo such great fatigue, that he felt like giving up the whole thing.
“It is true,” he said to M. Goefle, who was trying to encourage him. “I give you my word that, to use a juggler’s phrase, the game is not worth the candle. In plain words, I should tire myself to death, without benefit to my reputation, and I should swindle the baron out of his money. Do you know what I intend to do, M. Goefle? Renouncing the idea of shining in this neighborhood, I shall bundle up all this luggage, and take up my line of march for some town where I can look up another assistant, competent to help me in representing, and pious enough to keep the oath which I shall exact from him, to drink nothing but water, even though all the mountains of Sweden should run down with wine!”
“The devil! the devil!” exclaimed M. Goefle, greatly discomposed at the idea of losing his fellow-lodger; “if I thought I could make these small gentlemen perform a little—but, pshaw! I never could learn it!”
“Nothing easier. Try. The forefinger in the head, the thumb in one arm, the middle finger in the other—that’s it! that’s it, exactly. Come, make a bow. Lift the hands towards heaven!”
“That’s easy enough! But to make the gestures match the words, and then to find something to say! I can only improvise monologue.”
“Well, that’s a great deal. Come, now, argue a case. Lift that arm, and forget that you are M. Goefle; keep your eye on the figure that you are directing. As you speak, the gestures that you would naturally make with your arms, and the whole carriage of your person, will be reproduced of themselves at your fingers’ ends. You only need to be convinced that the burattino is a real person, and to transfer your individuality from yourself to him.”
“Diantre! That is very easy for you to say; but without any practice—well, let’s try it. Suppose I am arguing,—what shall I argue, by the way?”
“Defend the baron from the charge of having caused the assassination of his brother!”
“Defend! I would rather argue against than for him.”