“But,” replied the major, “I am ready to make oath, upon my honor, that I say nothing about him except what I absolutely know. Christian Waldo is an Italian comedian, who travels about from one town to another, amusing people by his good-natured wit and inexhaustible gayety. His exhibition consists—”
“We know that,” interrupted Margaret, “and we know that he gives his representations sometimes in drawing-rooms and sometimes in taverns; to-day in a castle, and to-morrow in a hovel; and that he makes the rich pay high prices, while he often exhibits to the poor for nothing.”
“An absurd original enough,” said Cristiano; “a kind of mountebank.”
“Mountebank or not, he is an extraordinary man,” replied the major, “and a man of genuine nobility of character, too, which is more! Last month, at Stockholm, I myself saw him fight three furious drunken sailors, one of whom had been cruelly abusing a poor cabin-boy, when Christian Waldo, indignant at the cowardly outrage, rescued his victim. On another occasion, this Christian threw himself into the midst of a fire to save an old woman; and every day he gave away almost all he received to persons who excited his pity. Indeed, it was said that the people of the suburbs were so enthusiastic about him, that he had to leave secretly in order to avoid being carried in a triumphal procession.”
“And also,” observed Margaret, “to avoid being obliged to remove his mask; for the authorities began to feel uneasy about an incognito so very popular, and they fancied he might be some Russian agent who was preparing the ground in this way, so that when the time came he could excite a sedition.”
“Do you believe,” said Cristiano, “that this funny fellow—for it appears that he is a funny fellow—is a Russian spy?”
“I? No, I don’t believe it,” replied Margaret. “I am not one of those people who prefer to think that goodness and charity cover wicked designs.”
“But his mask,” said one of the young ladies, who had been eagerly listening to the officers; “why does he always wear a black mask when he enters his theatre and leaves it? Is it to represent the Italian harlequin?”
“No, for he does not appear himself in the representation which he exhibits to the public. There is some reason, which no person knows.”
“Perhaps,” observed Cristiano, gravely, “it is to hide a leprosy, or something of the kind.”