“Look at this: is it his writing?”
“It is his writing.”
“For my part,” said M. Goefle, “I recognize perfectly, in the body of the document, the hand and style of Adam Stenson. Will you be so good as to open this portfolio, major, and verify the similitude? These are the accounts of his affairs, prepared and signed by the old steward at nearly the same period; that is to say, in 1751 and 1752. Besides, his writing has not changed, and his hand is still firm. Here is the proof of it: these three verses of the Bible written yesterday, and whose application, as interpreted by him, is quite evident, and will be useful in evidence.”
The major made the verification, but the whole affair, if not utterly enigmatical, still seemed to him very obscure. Had the baron forged false documents to establish that his sister-in-law had left no heirs to contest his rights? He was quite capable of this, but M. Goefle had seen these documents. They were actually in his possession, having been confided to him by his father, whom he had succeeded.
“I have these documents at my house in Gevala, in fact,” replied M. Goefle. “They have been verified by experts, and are authentic; but has it not been fully proved, at present, that they were extorted from the Baroness Hilda by constraint or fear? Be calm, Christian, all will be explained. Stay, major, here is another piece of evidence, discovered yesterday, in a dress, which I will show you; a letter from Baron Adelstan to his wife: read it, and calculate the dates. The hope of maternity was confirmed on the fifth of March, perhaps after two or three months of uncertainty. The child was born on the fifteenth of September; the baroness took refuge here during the first few days of the said month. She was probably kept a prisoner here, and she died on the twenty-eighth of December, of the same year. Here is another proof: look at this miniature! Look at it, Margaret Elveda! It is Count Adelstan, who certainly did not have it painted for the emergencies of a suit; the painter is celebrated, and he has dated and signed his work. And yet it is the portrait of Christian Waldo! The resemblance is striking. Lastly, look at this life-size portrait of the count. The resemblance is quite as remarkable. This is not the work of such a skilful artist, but he has rendered the hands faithfully, and you can see the bent fingers: show yours, Christian!”
“Ah!” cried Christian, who was walking up and down the room in a state of extreme excitement, and who allowed M. Goefle to seize his trembling hands, “if Baron Olaus has made my mother suffer martyrdom, woe to him! These hooked fingers shall tear his heart from his breast.”
“Let him give vent to his Italian passion,” said M. Goefle, who had risen, fearing that Christian was going to rush out. “He is a generous nature; I know him—I know his whole life. He must give voice to his grief and his indignation; do not you understand? But have patience, Christian! the baron, perhaps, has not been so criminal in the past as we suppose. We must learn all the particulars—we must see Stenson again. It is absolutely necessary, major, that Stenson should be delivered and brought back here, and yet you will not consent to do it.”
“You know perfectly well that I cannot!” cried the major, very much agitated and excited. “I have no rights over the authority of the seigneur, above all in the punishment of a domestic, and if the baron wants to make this old man suffer, he will not want for pretexts—”
Here the major was interrupted by Christian, who could no longer restrain his impetuosity.
“What!” he cried, “do you not see that they shrink from nothing in that den? I understand, too well, what they mean by their chamber of roses, as they call it in bitter and horrible mockery. And that poor old man, who has nothing left but his breath, that faithful servant, who saved me from my enemies, as he says in his declaration, and who, after that long and fatiguing journey, has devoted to me a whole life of privation and labor silently endured, shall I leave him now to perish for me, at this very hour, in torments? No, it is impossible; you shall not hold me back, major! I do not recognize your authority over me, and, even if I must cut my way out from here, sword in hand—well, so much the worse, you would have it so.”