“Marianne has been ill the whole time,” he said. “She has had small-pox. She was to get up to-day and lie on the sofa. I have not seen her since the first night.”
Madame Gustava leaped with one bound to the ground. She left Gösta standing there, and rushed away without another word to her husband.
The people in the auction-room saw her come up to him and eagerly whisper something in his ear. They saw how his face grew still more flushed, and his hand, which rested on the cock, turned it round so that the brandy streamed over the floor.
It seemed to all as if Madame Gustava had come with such important news that the auction must end immediately. The auctioneer’s hammer no longer fell, the clerks’ pens stopped, there were no new bids.
Melchior Sinclair roused himself from his thoughts.
And the auction was in full swing once more.
Gösta still sat in the kitchen, and Madame Gustava came weeping out to him.
“It’s no use,” she said. “I thought he would stop when he heard that Marianne had been ill; but he is letting them go on. He would like to, but now he is ashamed.”
Gösta shrugged his shoulders and bade her farewell.
“This is a funny show,” exclaimed Sintram, and rubbed his hands. “You are a master, Gösta. Lord, what you have brought to pass!”
“It will be funnier in a little while,” whispered Gösta. “The Broby clergyman is here with a sledge full of money. They say that he wants to buy the whole of Björne and pay in cash. Then I would like to see Melchior Sinclair, Sintram.”
Sintram drew his head down between his shoulders and laughed internally a long time. And then he made his way into the auction-room and up to Melchior Sinclair.
“If you want a drink, Sintram, you must make a bid first.”
“You are in luck to-day as always,” he said. “A fellow has come to the house with a sledge full of money. He is going to buy Björne and everything both inside and out. He has told a lot of people to bid for him. He does not want to show himself yet for a while.”
“You might say who he is; then I suppose I must give you a drink for your pains.”
Sintram took the dram and moved a couple of steps backwards, before he answered,—
“They say it is the Broby clergyman, Melchior.”
Melchior Sinclair had many better friends than the Broby clergyman. It had been a life-long feud between them. There were legends of how he had lain in wait on dark nights on the roads where the minister should pass, and how he had given him many an honest drubbing, the old fawning oppressor of the peasants.