Cristiano now began a brisk conversation with the young lady; and, being a little stimulated by the champagne, his gayety was gradually taking on a sentimental complexion, when a name, pronounced aloud close to him, made him start and turn around suddenly.
“Christian Waldo!” said a young officer, with an open and good-natured face; “who has seen him? where is he?”
“To be sure!” cried Cristiano, jumping up. “Where is Christian Waldo? Who has seen him?”
“Nobody,” answered some one from another table. “Who has ever seen Christian Waldo’s face, and who will ever see it?”
“You have never seen it, have you, Monsieur Goefle?” asked Margaret of Cristiano. “You do not know him?”
“No. But who is Christian Waldo, and how is it that it is impossible to see his face?”
“You must have heard him spoken of though, for his name seemed to strike you.”
“Yes, because I remember having heard it at Stockholm; but I did not pay much attention to it, and I do not even remember—”
“Come, major,” said a young lieutenant, “since you know this Waldo, tell us who he is, and what he does. I do not know anything about him.”
“Major Larrson knows a great deal if he can do that,” said Margaret. “For my part, I have heard so many different things said about Christian Waldo, that I promise beforehand not to believe a word of anything that is going to be told.”