“Then you did care a little about staying?” she rejoined, in a tone that made Christian’s heart beat.
He had not the courage to reply that he did not care; it was more than he could do; but he felt that it was time to put an end to a comedy so dangerous, if not to the young countess, at least to himself, and, with an effort of truthful self-sacrifice that made him dizzy, he said promptly:
“I wanted to stay so as to undeceive you. I am not the person you supposed. I am what I tell you, Christian Waldo.”
“I do not understand,” she said; “is it not enough to have mystified me once? Why do you wish to play another part? Do you suppose I did not recognize your voice when you were performing with Christian Waldo’s marionettes with so much spirit? I saw very plainly that you were more brilliant than he—”
“But what makes you believe that?” said Christian, astonished; “to whom do you suppose you were listening this evening?”
“To you and to him. There were two voices, I am sure, perhaps three—yours, Waldo’s, and that of his assistant.”
“There were only two, I give you my word.”
“Very well, what then? I tell you I recognized yours. You cannot deceive me as to that.”
“Why, no; my voice is my voice; I do not deny that; but I must tell you—”
“Listen! listen!” exclaimed Margaret; “do you hear? They are proclaiming the name of the victor. It is Christian Waldo, I think—yes, yes, I am sure of it. I hear it distinctly, and I can plainly see the man in the mask, standing up, in his little black sleigh. That is he! He is the real one. You are only a counterfeit Waldo. But really, M. Goefle, you ought to take his place; the best things in the whole play, and the best delivered—and, above all, the entire part of Alonzo—were yours! Come now, let me hear you venture to assert that I am mistaken!”