Christian made all his preparations with the most critical care. He was really fond of his little theatre, and had adapted to it a number of ingenious contrivances which made it something like a miniature of a real theatre. He would, in fact, have been successful as a painter of interiors and of landscape, if the love of the natural sciences had not occasioned him to confine himself mostly to mere decorative work; but his natural gifts were so good, that he could scarcely execute even work intrinsically frivolous, without giving it the distinct impress of his own graceful and tasteful originality. His little scenes were accordingly fresh and charming in design, and always produced an agreeable effect. He took the greatest pains with them, especially when he was going to exhibit before an intelligent audience; and if he occasionally felt impatient at having to spend so much time over such details, he consoled himself by recalling the favorite axiom of Goffredi: “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing as well as possible, even if it is only whittling toothpicks.”
Christian, therefore, was completely absorbed in making his preparations. Having cast a precautionary glance around the deserted gallery, he set up the frame of his theatre experimentally in the door-way with all the scenery and lights, and, stepping out into the audience-room, he seated himself in the best place to judge of the effect of his perspective, so that he might adjust properly the entrances and movements of his actors.
The two or three minutes’ rest thus obtained was very welcome to him. He was more or less hardened to the extremes of all climates, but he found that in the over-heated rooms of the houses of the north, he quickly felt fatigued. He had slept the night before only a few hours, in his arm-chair; and either from the exhausting experiences of the day, or from his walk on the ice with a professor of geology on his shoulders, he was overtaken by a sudden and irresistible drowsiness, and sank into one of those brief naps, in which the transition from the world of reality to dream-land is so sudden as to be imperceptible. He seemed to be in a garden, on a warm summer’s day, and to hear the sand in one of the paths near him crackling under a stealthy tread. Some one was cautiously approaching; and although he could not see the person, he felt an intuitive certainty that it was Margaret. He awoke without being startled, on feeling what seemed to be a breath stirring in his hair. Quickly recovering himself, he jumped up and found that his mask had fallen off and lay at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, without turning round to see who had wakened him, and was startled in good earnest, when a man’s voice, only too well known to him, remarked:
“It is perfectly useless to hide your face, Christian Waldo; I have recognized you. You are Christian Goffredi.”
Christian, astonished, turned, and saw standing before him, in good condition, well-dressed, and fresh shaved, no other than Guido Massarelli.
“What! Is this you?” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here, when you ought to be dangling at the end of a rope, at the meeting of four cross-roads, in some wood.”
“I am one of the household,” said Guido, smiling calmly and disdainfully.
“You one of the baron’s household? Ah, to be sure! It does not surprise me. After being a swindler, and a highway robber, what remained except for you to become a lackey?”
“I am not a lackey,” replied Massarelli, with the same composure; “I am a friend of the family. Quite an intimate friend, Christian, and you would do well, moreover, to try and be on good terms with me. It would be the greatest piece of good fortune that could befall you.”
“Master Guido,” said Christian, as he moved his theatre back into the inner saloon, “it is unnecessary to have an explanation now; but I am glad to know that you are staying here, where I shall be able to find you.”