The comic scenes in which Stentarello entertained the public, Christian varied with a sentimental by-plot between other characters. In the last act, Alonzo, the child of the lake, discovered that Rosita, the daughter of the worthy couple who had adopted and brought him up, was not his sister, whereupon he avowed his love to her. This well-known dramatic situation is always a delicate one to manage. There is something unwelcome in seeing a brother pass suddenly from a sacred friendship to a passion which, in spite of the change of circumstances, persists, as it were, in seeming unholy. This young girl and Alonzo were the only two of his characters whom Christian had not burlesqued. He had represented the latter as a good-hearted young man, with views and pursuits like his own. The audience felt a sympathy for his generous and adventurous qualities, and the ladies, quite forgetting that it was only a marionette which they beheld, were charmed with the pleasant voice which discoursed to them of love with a certain chaste tenderness, and in a frank tone, far different from the mannerisms of the fashionable French pastorals of the day.
Christian was familiar with Marivaux, whose works present such a striking union of elaborate thought, with simplicity of feeling and passionate emotion. He had been deeply penetrated with all that is true and great in this charming genius, and he really excelled in representing the part of a lover. The scene was too short. It was encored vehemently, and Christian, yielding to the wish of the public, picked up Alonzo again—he had already pulled him off his fingers—and brought him back upon the stage in a manner at once ingenious and natural.
“Did you call me?” he said to the young girl, and this simple phrase was uttered with an expression so timid, so profoundly loving, and so heart-felt, that Margaret hid her face behind her hand, to conceal a deep blush.
The fact is, that the young girl was passing through a strange experience. Out of all the audience, she alone had recognized in the voice of Alonzo that of Christian Goefle; perhaps because she alone had conversed with him sufficiently to remember his voice distinctly. It is true that Christian Waldo made his young lover talk in a higher key than his own natural intonation, but still there were certain inflections and vibrations that startled Margaret every moment. When the love scene came, she was absolutely certain; and yet Christian Goefle had not said a single word of love to her. She kept her thoughts to herself, however; and when Olga, who was cold and sarcastic, nudged her with her elbow, and asked if she was crying, the innocent child replied with artless hypocrisy that she had caught a bad cold, and was trying to smother her cough.
As for Olga, she, too, was dissimulating, though in a very different way. When the play was over, she pretended to feel a great contempt for the little gentleman, who was such a “bashful lover,” and yet her heart had been beating violently. In fact, there are some Russian women who are habitually heartless and calculating, but who, nevertheless, have very ardent passions. Olga had resolutely committed herself to an interested marriage; and yet, in spite of herself, she could not help feeling a secret horror of the baron, ever since she had been engaged to him. When he spoke to her after the play, his harsh voice and icy look gave her a chill, and she remembered without, or even against her intention, the soft tones and vivid expressions of Christian Waldo.
Upon his side, the baron seemed to be in excellent humor. The unfortunate Don Sancho, who was to have made his appearance again towards the close of the piece, had prudently been suppressed by M. Goefle. Between the first and second acts, he and Christian had agreed together as to this modification. They arranged to make Rosita the daughter of Don Sancho, who was supposed to have died during the intermission. She turned out to be the heiress of his vast fortune, and marries Alonzo at the end of the play, so as to make up for the spoliation which he had suffered. Adventures, blunders, romantic incidents, and comic scenes, and most of all Stentarello, with his ingenuous selfishness and his cowardice, filled out the slender framework of the little comedy, which was received with general enthusiasm, notwithstanding the dissent of M. Stangstadius, who did not listen to a single word, and pooh-poohed everything from beginning to end. He was quite out of patience to think that anybody could be interested in a frivolous affair in which there was nothing scientific.
Meanwhile, M. Goefle had thrown himself into an arm-chair in the green-room, where he was shut up with Christian; and while the latter, always active and industrious, busied himself with taking down, arranging, and folding all the different parts and implements of his theatre—packing the dramatis personæ into their box, and folding the theatre itself into one bundle, which, although heavy, could easily be carried—the advocate wiped the perspiration from his forehead, sipped his Spanish wine, and, in short, gave himself up, heart and soul, to enjoyment and relaxation, as he was in the habit of doing at home when he took off his professional robe and cap, to retire, as he was accustomed to phrase it, into the bosom of private life.
This charming man had experienced few disappointments in public life, and few private troubles. What he had really felt the want of, since he had settled down to the sober, tranquil career of a middle-aged man, was novelty, the element of adventure. This he pretended to hate, and thought he did hate it; and yet he suffered from the monotony of his existence, because he possessed a vivid imagination, and great versatility of talent. Naturally, therefore, at the present moment, he was in unusually high spirits, without knowing why. Although fatigued, and bathed in perspiration, he was sorry that the play was over; for at least ten additional acts, ready for performance, were floating in his mind.
“I ought to be ashamed of myself,” he said; “here am I resting, while you are hard at work setting things to rights. Cannot I help you?”
“No, no, M. Goefle, you would not know how. Besides, I have done already. Are you still too warm to think of walking back to Stollborg?”