“As to the part of Alonzo, I cannot deny that.”
“Shall you play again to-morrow, M. Goefle?”
“Certainly.”
“That will be very kind of you! For my part, I thank you; but are you quite sure that no one will suspect who you are? You must keep yourself well hidden at Stollborg. I am glad to see that you are so prudent, and know so well how to disguise yourself. No one could recognize you, dressed as you are now. But you must go away, please! They are all getting into their sleighs to drive to the hogar and compliment the victor. My aunt will certainly join me. No, she is going in the Russian ambassador’s sleigh. She leaves me alone! A mother would not have done that, M. Christian. An aunt, and so young and handsome—well, certainly, she is not much like a mother! Stay; she will surely send M. Stangstadius to keep me company!”
“M. Stangstadius!” exclaimed Christian, “where is he? I do not see him—”
“He was simple enough to put on a mask, but nobody can mistake him; if he were anywhere within sight, you would certainly recognize him. No, he is not coming, and they are all setting off.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Margaret’s driver, in Dalecarlian, to his young mistress, “her ladyship your aunt is making me a sign to follow.”
“Do so, then,” she said; “but you are on foot, M. Goefle! Jump up on the driver’s seat; you cannot go with us otherwise.”
“What will your aunt say?”
Christian asked the question, but he jumped up on the seat nevertheless, though not without regret that the conversation was ended. But Margaret closed the side window and opened the one in front, which was almost even with his face. The sleigh flew noiselessly over the snow, over which Peterson was driving just outside the beaten track, for he had lost his place in the regular array. The good fellow did not understand a single word of French, and the conversation continued: