“Difficult? Why?”
“Because a mountebank would not venture to present himself in the character of an invited guest, among such a company as this.”
“Bah!” said the major; “it seems the fellow is not afraid to do anything. His mask, his exhibition, and his name, belong together; but it is asserted, and it seems quite probable, that, under another name, and without any mask, he comes and goes as he likes, and goes all over Stockholm; and that, in the public promenades and most frequented taverns, those who talk about him can never be certain that he is not just at their elbow, or perhaps the very person they are speaking to.”
“But then,” said Cristiano, “how do we know that he is not even in this very room?”
“Oh no!” answered Margaret, though not until she had glanced all round the room, “all of us who are here know each other.”
“But I? No one knows me? Perhaps I am Christian Waldo!”
“Then where is your death’s head?” said one of the young girls, laughing. “Without either mask or death’s head, you are only an apocryphal Waldo. And by the way, gentlemen, can any one tell us how it is known that he has arrived?”
“I can tell you,” replied the major, “how I found it out myself. It seems that an unknown person applied for accommodations here, and, the house being full, was directed to the farm-house. He gave his name, and showed the letter in which Johan, the major-domo, by order of his master, the baron, invited him hither for the amusement of the guests here assembled. I don’t know whether they have accommodated him in some corner of the chateau or elsewhere; but it is certain that he has come.”
“Who told you so?”
“The major-domo himself.”