“‘The young man is very happy in his home with the Goffredis—he is much beloved.’ That refers to you, I should rather think. And yet, in certain places, he says: ‘My nephew,’ and it is still you he is speaking of. ‘My nephew has gone into the country, to Lake Perugia, with the Goffredis. The young man is fifteen years old to-day—He is tall and strong, and resembles his father—’ Oh, yes, certainly, Christian, you resemble him.”
“My father? Who, then, is my father?” cried Christian. “Do you know?”
“Stay,” said M. Goefle, “handing him a medallion, which he drew from his pocket, with much emotion. Look at that. Stenson just confided it to me. It is a portrait closely resembling the original—authentic!—Might it not have been taken for you?”
“Heavens!” said Christian, gazing at the beautiful miniature almost with a feeling of terror; “I don’t know, I am sure! It is a young man, richly dressed; is it not Baron Olaus in his youth?”
“No, no, God be praised, it is not he! But do not say a word, Christian, I must read on; I am beginning to understand! In another letter, you are designated as ‘your nephew,’ and no longer ‘my nephew’; and in still another, ‘your nephew.’ It is quite evident that it is a precaution to turn aside suspicions in case the letters are intercepted, for you are not related either to the man who wrote these letters, or to Stenson, to whom they are addressed.”
“Stenson! Is it to him, then, that some one has sent this accurate account of my health, my progress, and my travels? for I saw enough to understand that this had been done, in turning over the leaves. Here is a letter in which they speak of my duel; see, it is dated at Rome, one thousand seven hundred—”
“Wait!—oh, yes, I see it. There is a letter every year. ‘He has had the misfortune to kill Marco Melfi, who was’—then follow reflections. ‘The cardinal has no wish to be revenged. I hope to discover what has become of our poor child.’ Ah, here is a letter from Paris: ‘It is impossible to find him. I might deceive you, but I do not wish to. I am afraid that he may have been arrested in Italy. While I am looking for him here, he perhaps is a prisoner in the castle of Saint Angelo!’ Stay, Christian!—don’t be impatient. Here is a letter which must be more recent. It is dated the sixth of last August, Troppau, Moravia: ‘I was really upon the right track this time—He took the name of Dulac in Paris, as I supposed, but he started on a journey, and, most unhappily, has perished quite recently. I have just been dining at an inn with a young man named Guido Massarelli, whom I knew in Rome, and who was well acquainted with him, and he informed me that he had been assassinated in the forest of’—illegible! ‘I shall give up, therefore, any further search for him, and as my little commercial transactions require me to go to Italy, I shall start to-morrow before day-break. Do not send me any more money to help me on in my travels. You are not rich, for you have always been honest. That is the case, too, with your servant and friend, Ma—Mancini—Manucci.’”
“I know no such person!” said Christian.
“Manasses!” cried M. Goefle; “the person whom M. Guido mentioned yesterday, the little Jew who took such an inexplicable interest in you.”
“That was not his name,” rejoined Christian.