“Well, enough of that! I see, Monsieur Goefle, that you are an amiable and witty man, as every one says; but I was very much mistaken in supposing that you would sympathize with me, and would be my guide and protector. You agree with my aunt, you consider all I have told you a mere dream, and you reject the cry of my heart. May God have pity upon me! I have no longer any hope but in Him.”
“Wait a little!” replied Cristiano, moved to see great tears rolling over rosy cheeks which had just been so smiling. “Why don’t you depend more upon yourself? What have you told me, after all? You announce that you have a confession to make of a delicate nature and all it amounts to is that your friends wish you to marry a man who does not please you, and towards whom you feel an antipathy. I thought you were going to confide some love affair to me. You need not blush at that. A love may be pure and honorable, even although ambitious parents disapprove of it. A father and mother may be mistaken, and yet it is painful to resist their influence. You are an orphan! Yes, you must be, since you are dependent upon an old aunt—I call her old, and you shake your head! Assume that she is young—she claims to be so, no doubt, and I, it seems, am no longer a judge, for I considered her old. If she is young, she ought all the more to be sent—I will not say to mind her own business, but to reflect to some purpose, while you ask the advice of some old friend, M. Goefle, for instance—that is to say, myself—some one, in a word, who can put you in a way to marry the happy mortal whom you prefer.”
“But I assure you, dear M. Goefle, that I do not love any one,” replied Margaret. “Oh God! it would only need that to complete my misfortunes! It is quite enough to be obliged to endure the importunities of a person you hate.”
“You are not sincere, my dear child,” replied Cristiano, who was playing his part so well and naturally that he really was beginning to feel as if he were M. Goefle in person; “you are afraid that I will repeat what you confide to me to the countess, my client.”
“Oh, no, no, dear Monsieur Goefle, it is not so, indeed! I know that you are both honorable and kind-hearted. Every one considers you so, and even the baron, who thinks ill of every one else, dares not say a word against you. Such is my respect for you, my confidence in you, that I have been watching for your arrival at Waldemora; and I must tell you how the idea of seeking you in this way occurred to me: this will give you my whole history in a few words, and I don’t believe my aunt has related it very accurately.
“I was brought up in Chateau Dalby, in Woermland, twenty leagues distant, under the eyes of my guardian, Countess Elfride d’Elveda, my father’s sister. When I say under her eyes, you know what I mean! My aunt loves society and politics. She accompanies the court to Stockholm, and is much more interested in the affairs of the Diet than in taking care of me. So, all my life, I have lived in a rather gloomy chateau with my French governess, Mademoiselle Potin, who, fortunately, is very kind, and who loves me dearly. My aunt makes us a visit twice a year, to see whether I have grown, whether I am speaking French and Russian well, whether I am in want of anything, and whether the pastor of our church, who is very strict, takes good care that we do not receive any visits besides his own, and those of his family.”
“Well, really, that is not very amusing!”
“No; but I have no cause to consider myself unhappy. I study a good deal with my governess, I am quite rich, and my aunt is quite generous, so that I have everything I want; and when the time seems a little long to us, we read novels;—oh, such good and beautiful novels, that make us forget our solitude, and whose moral always is that crime is punished and virtue rewarded!”
“You may be sure of that! At all events, there is no harm in believing it, and behaving accordingly. But there must have been some hero of all this solitude, and of all these romances; did no handsome young fellow, in spite of pastor or aunt, contrive to glide into the house, or at least into your heart?”
“Oh! no, never, I assure you, Monsieur Goefle!” replied Margaret, frankly. “But when my aunt told me suddenly eight days ago that she had selected a husband for me, I will confess that I formed a certain ideal of what he would be like; and when she pointed out Baron Olaus de Waldemora, and said,—‘There he is, be amiable,’ he was so different from what I expected, that I was not amiable at all.”