“Perfectly.”
“And shall you be at Stollborg to-morrow?”
“I don’t know. It does not concern you, either.”
“As you please. But to-morrow I shall bring you the money.”
“Spare yourself the trouble. I am at home at Stollborg, and I do not receive.”
“But yet—”
“Silence! I have heard you long enough.”
“But if I bring you the money—”
“The same sum that you took from me? No, I presume not! You drank that out a long time ago. Well, then, as the money you speak of can’t be the same, and as it must be the proceeds of some theft, or of something worse, if possible, I don’t want it. Please to take that for granted, and don’t trouble yourself with any more talk about restitution. I am not fool enough to believe you, and if I did, I should promise you just as faithfully as I now do, to throw the price of your vile exploits into your face.”
Christian was on the point of thrusting Guido out, but the latter yielded at last, and went. The exhibitor was about to close the door again, when M. Goefle, all covered up in furs, appeared, ascending the stairs, manuscript in hand. The lawyer had either eaten very quickly, or not at all; he had devoured the play, which he rapidly mastered, and, fearing that he would not have time enough to rehearse, had hurried over from Stollborg on foot, by the light of the stars. He had concealed his face and disguised his voice, in order to inquire for Christian Waldo’s room; and, in short, had used all the precautions of a young lover stealing to a mysterious rendezvous. His head, for the present, was full of nothing but the burattini; he had forgotten the mysteries of Stollborg as completely as if he had never troubled himself on the subject. However, as he was running lightly up the stairs, he found himself, for the second time that day, obliged to pass a man of evil countenance, who was rapidly descending. This second meeting brought back to his mind the strange fancies in which he had been indulging about Baron Olaus, Stenson, and the deceased Hilda.