At this assumed name, and, above all, at the young man’s voice and pronunciation, Margaret trembled.
“Are you Monsieur Goefle’s son?” she said, eagerly. “Oh, it is singular how much you resemble him!”
“There would be nothing singular in such near relatives looking alike,” replied the professor, “but this gentleman can only be Goefle’s nephew. Goefle never married, and consequently he has no children, any more than myself.”
“That would be no reason,” Cristiano whispered in the professor’s ear.
“To be sure; you are right!” replied the latter in the same tone, and with the most incredible simplicity; “I did not think of that! That devil of a Goefle! You are his son, then, by a left-handed marriage?”
“Brought up in a foreign country, and just arrived in Sweden,” replied Cristiano, astonished at the success of his impromptu suggestions.
“Well, well!” replied the professor, who cared very little about other people’s affairs. “I understand; it is quite plain—you are his nephew.”
He turned to Margaret.
“I know this gentleman perfectly well,” he said; “he is the nephew of my excellent friend Monsieur Goefle, and I have the honor to present him to you. You don’t know M. Goefle, but you said this morning that you would like to become acquainted with him.”
“And so I should,” cried Margaret.