Marianne had to laugh.
“Everyone knows that Gösta Berling is irresistible. My fault is no greater than others’.”
And they agreed to put a good face on it, so that no one should suspect the truth.
“Can I be sure that the truth will never come out, Herr Gösta?” she asked, before they went out among the guests.
“That you can. Gentlemen can hold their tongues. I promise you that.”
She dropped her eyes. A strange smile curved her lips.
“If the truth should come out, what would people think of me, Herr Gösta?”
“They would not think anything. They would know that it meant nothing. They would think that we entered into our parts and were going on with the play.”
Yet another question, with lowered lids and with the same forced smile—
“But you yourself? What do you think about it, Herr Gösta?”
“I think that you are in love with me,” he jested.
“Think no such thing,” she smiled, “for then I must run you through with my stiletto to show you that you are wrong.”
“Women’s kisses are precious,” said Gösta. “Does it cost one’s life to be kissed by Marianne Sinclair?”
A glance flashed on him from Marianne’s eyes, so sharp that it felt like a blow.
“I could wish to see you dead, Gösta Berling! dead! dead!”
These words revived the old longing in the poet’s blood.
“Ah,” he said, “would that those words were more than words!—that they were arrows which came whistling from some dark ambush; that they were daggers or poison, and had the power to destroy this wretched body and set my soul free!”
She was calm and smiling now.
“Childishness!” she said, and took his arm to join the guests.
They kept their costumes, and their triumphs were renewed when they showed themselves in front of the scenes. Everyone complimented them. No one suspected anything.
The ball began again, but Gösta escaped from the ballroom.
His heart ached from Marianne’s glance, as if it had been wounded by sharp steel. He understood too well the meaning of her words.
It was a disgrace to love him; it was a disgrace to be loved by him, a shame worse than death.
He would never dance again. He wished never to see them again, those lovely women.
He knew it too well. Those beautiful eyes, those red cheeks burned not for him. Not for him floated those light feet, nor rung that low laugh.
Yes, dance with him, flirt with him, that they could do, but not one of them would be his in earnest.
The poet went into the smoking-room to the old men, and sat down by one of the card-tables. He happened to throw himself down by the same table where the powerful master of Björne sat and played “baccarat” holding the bank with a great pile of silver in front of him.
The play was already high. Gösta gave it an even greater impulse. Green banknotes appeared, and always the pile of money grew in front of the powerful Melchior Sinclair.
But before Gösta also gathered both coins and notes, and soon he was the only one who held out in the struggle against the great landowner at Björne. Soon the great pile of money changed over from Melchior Sinclair to Gösta Berling.
“Gösta, my boy,” cried the landowner, laughing, when he had played away everything he had in his pocketbook and purse, “what shall we do now? I am bankrupt, and I never play with borrowed money. I promised my wife that.”
He discovered a way. He played away his watch and his beaver coat, and was just going to stake his horse and sledge when Sintram checked him.
“Stake something to win on,” he advised him. “Stake something to turn the luck.”
“What the devil have I got?”
“Play your reddest heart’s blood, brother Melchior. Stake your daughter!”
“You would never venture that,” said Gösta, laughing. “That prize I would never get under my roof.”
Melchior could not help laughing also. He could not endure that Marianne’s name should be mentioned at the card-tables, but this was so insanely ridiculous that he could not be angry. To play away Marianne to Gösta, yes, that he certainly could venture.
“That is to say,” he explained, “that if you can win her consent, Gösta, I will stake my blessing to the marriage on this card.”
Gösta staked all his winnings and the play began. He won, and Sinclair stopped playing. He could not fight against such bad luck; he saw that.
The night slipped by; it was past midnight. The lovely women’s cheeks began to grow pale; curls hung straight, ruffles were crumpled. The old ladies rose up from the sofa-corners and said that as they had been there twelve hours, it was about time for them to be thinking of home.
And the beautiful ball should be over, but then Lilliecrona himself seized the fiddle and struck up the last polka. The horses stood at the door; the old ladies were dressed in their cloaks and shawls; the old men wound their plaids about them and buckled their galoshes.
But the young people could not tear themselves from the dance. They danced in their outdoor wraps, and a mad dance it was. As soon as a girl stopped dancing with one partner, another came and dragged her away with him.
And even the sorrowful Gösta was dragged into the whirl. He hoped to dance away grief and humiliation; he wished to have the love of life in his blood again; he longed to be gay, he as well as the others. And he danced till the walls went round, and he no longer knew what he was doing.
Who was it he had got hold of in the crowd? She was light and supple, and he felt that streams of fire went from one to the other. Ah, Marianne!
While Gösta danced with Marianne, Sintram sat in his sledge before the door, and beside him stood Melchior Sinclair.
The great landowner was impatient at being forced to wait for Marianne. He stamped in the snow with his great snow-boots
