“Yes indeed! Gustavus Vasa, Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII., all the Swedish heroes, have always found men in the heart of these mountains, though all the rest of the nation might be enslaved or corrupted. It is this glorious nook of the earth, this Switzerland of the north, that in every great crisis has supplied loyalty, energy, and salvation to the country.”
“Very well said! Well then, admit that the national gruel and barren and icy rocks may bring forth and train up poets and heroes!”
As he said this, the doctor of laws drew his soft wadded dressing-gown around him, and poured into his boiling hot and well-sweetened cup of tea, a half-glass of the best quality of rum. Cristiano was enjoying the flavor of an exquisite cup of Mocha, and they both burst out laughing at their enthusiasm for the cold of the mountains and the gruel of hovels.
“Ah!” said M. Goefle, becoming serious again, “the fact is, we are degenerate men. We must have our stimulants and tonics nowadays. That proves that the most accomplished or the most famous of us all is inferior to the lowest peasant of these savage mountains. But will not that animal of an Ulphilas bring us any tobacco? That fellow is a perfect brute!”
Cristiano laughed again, and M. Goefle, perceiving the inconsistency of eulogizing sobriety and equality just at that moment, allowed himself to be appeased, especially when he espied the tobacco-jar at his elbow. Ulph had brought it, with his usual mechanical precision, and had omitted to say so, from his utter lack of spontaneity.
“Well, come,” said M. Goefle—extending himself in the arm-chair for more commodious digestion, and smoking a magnificent Turkish pipe, whose bowl he rested upon a projection of the stove, while Cristiano, sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, sometimes astride his chair, smoked his short travelling-pipe with more speed and less tranquillity—“come, my problematic comrade, tell me this true history of yours, if you can.”
“Here it is, then,” said Cristiano. “My name is—or at least I go by the name of Cristiano del Lago!”
“Chrétien du Lac? Christian of the Lake? Why so romantic a name?”
“Ah, there you have me! Chi lo sa? Who knows? as they say in my country. It is altogether a romance, no doubt, without a word of truth in it. I will tell it to you as it was told to me.
“In some country—I don’t know what—by the side of a lake whose name I have never known, a lady—ugly or handsome, rich or poor, noble or plebeian—either in consequence of a legitimate connection or of an unfortunate mischance—gave birth to an infant whose existence, it seems, it was very necessary to conceal. By means of a cord and a basket—these details were told me with much precision—this lady, or her confidential companion, lowered the poor little new-born child into a boat, waiting below either by chance, or in pursuance of some arrangement made secretly. As to the lady, I have never met any one who could inform me what became of her; and where should I have made inquiries? As to the child, it was carried away secretly, I do not know whither, and maintained, I do not know how, until old enough to be weaned, when it was carried away again, I don’t know by whom, into another country—”