The Mysterious Stranger: A Romance. Марк Твен

wanted me to explain, but I was tired.

      We passed out through the parlor, and there was Marget at the spinnet teaching Marie Lueger. So one of the deserting pupils was back; and an influential one, too; the others would follow. Marget jumped up and ran and thanked us again, with tears in her eyes – this was the third time – for saving her and her uncle from being turned into the street, and we told her again we hadn’t done it; but that was her way, she never could be grateful enough for anything a person did for her; so we let her have her say. And as we passed through the garden, there was Wilhelm Meidling sitting there waiting, for it was getting toward the edge of the evening, and he would be asking Marget to take a walk along the river with him when she was done with the lesson. He was a young lawyer, and succeeding fairly well and working his way along, little by little. He was very fond of Marget, and she of him. He had not deserted along with the others, but had stood his ground all through. His faithfulness was not lost on Marget and her uncle. He hadn’t so very much talent, but he was handsome and good, and these are a kind of talents themselves and help along. He asked us how the lesson was getting along, and we told him it was about done. And maybe it was so; we didn’t know anything about it, but we judged it would please him, and it did, and didn’t cost us anything.

      CHAPTER V

      ON the fourth day comes the astrologer from his crumbling old tower up the valley, where he had heard the news, I reckon. He had a private talk with us, and we told him what we could, for we were mightily in dread of him. He sat there studying and studying awhile to himself; then he asked:

      “How many ducats did you say?”

      “Eleven hundred and seven, sir.”

      Then he said, as if he were talking to himself: “It is ver-y singular. Yes … very strange. A curious coincidence.” Then he began to ask questions, and went over the whole ground from the beginning, we answering. By and by he said: “Eleven hundred and six ducats. It is a large sum.”

      “Seven,” said Seppi, correcting him.

      “Oh, seven, was it? Of course a ducat more or less isn’t of consequence, but you said eleven hundred and six before.”

      It would not have been safe for us to say he was mistaken, but we knew he was. Nikolaus said, “We ask pardon for the mistake, but we meant to say seven.”

      “Oh, it is no matter, lad; it was merely that I noticed the discrepancy. It is several days, and you cannot be expected to remember precisely. One is apt to be inexact when there is no particular circumstance to impress the count upon the memory.”

      “But there was one, sir,” said Seppi, eagerly.

      “What was it, my son?” asked the astrologer, indifferently.

      “First, we all counted the piles of coin, each in turn, and all made it the same – eleven hundred and six. But I had slipped one out, for fun, when the count began, and now I slipped it back and said, ‘I think there is a mistake – there are eleven hundred and seven; let us count again.’ We did, and of course I was right. They were astonished; then I told how it came about.”

      The astrologer asked us if this was so, and we said it was.

      “That settles it,” he said. “I know the thief now. Lads, the money was stolen.”

      Then he went away, leaving us very much troubled, and wondering what he could mean. In about an hour we found out; for by that time it was all over the village that Father Peter had been arrested for stealing a great sum of money from the astrologer. Everybody’s tongue was loose and going. Many said it was not in Father Peter’s character and must be a mistake; but the others shook their heads and said misery and want could drive a suffering man to almost anything. About one detail there were no differences; all agreed that Father Peter’s account of how the money came into his hands was just about unbelievable – it had such an impossible look. They said it might have come into the astrologer’s hands in some such way, but into Father Peter’s, never! Our characters began to suffer now. We were Father Peter’s only witnesses; how much did he probably pay us to back up his fantastic tale? People talked that kind of talk to us pretty freely and frankly, and were full of scoffings when we begged them to believe really we had told only the truth. Our parents were harder on us than any one else. Our fathers said we were disgracing our families, and they commanded us to purge ourselves of our lie, and there was no limit to their anger when we continued to say we had spoken true. Our mothers cried over us and begged us to give back our bribe and get back our honest names and save our families from shame, and come out and honorably confess. And at last we were so worried and harassed that we tried to tell the whole thing, Satan and all – but no, it wouldn’t come out. We were hoping and longing all the time that Satan would come and help us out of our trouble, but there was no sign of him.