“Yes, yes, of course; it lay on the highway. Then you came to Borg, were tutor there to Henrik Dohna, and might have been Countess Märta’s son-in-law. Who was it who managed that the young Ebba Dohna should hear that you were only a dismissed priest, so that she refused you? It was the major’s wife, Gösta Berling. She wanted you back again.” “Great matter!” says Gösta. “Ebba Dohna died soon afterwards. I would never have got her anyway.” Then the devil came close up to him and hissed right in his face: “Died! yes, of course she died. Killed herself for your sake, did she? But they never told you that.” “You are not such a bad devil,” says Gösta. “It was the major’s wife who arranged it all, I tell you. She wanted to have you back in the bachelors’ wing.” Gösta burst out laughing. “You are not such a bad devil,” he cried wildly. “Why should we not make a contract with you? I’m sure you can get us the seven estates if you like.” “It is well that you do not longer withstand your fate.” The pensioners drew a sigh of relief. It had gone so far with them that they could do nothing without Gösta. If he had not agreed to the arrangement it could never have come to anything. And it was no small matter for destitute gentlemen to get seven estates for their own. “Remember, now,” says Gösta, “that we take the seven estates in order to save our souls, but not to be iron-work owners who count their money and weigh their iron. No dried-up parchments, no purse-proud money-bags will we become, but gentlemen will we be and remain.” “The very words of wisdom,” murmurs the black one. “If you, therefore, will give us the seven estates for one year we will accept them; but remember that if we do anything during that time which is not worthy of a gentleman, if we do anything which is sensible, or useful, or effeminate, then you may take the whole twelve of us when the year is out, and give the estates to whom you will.” The devil rubbed his hands with delight. “But if we always behave like true gentlemen,” continues Gösta, “then you may never again make any contract about Ekeby, and no pay do you get for this year either from us or from the major’s wife.” “That is hard,” says the devil. “Oh, dear Gösta, I must have one soul, just one little, poor soul. Couldn’t I have the major’s wife? Why should you spare the major’s wife?” “I do not drive any bargains with such wares,” roars Gösta; “but if you must have some one, you can take old Sintram at Fors; he is ready, I can answer for that.” “Well, well, that will do,” says the devil, without blinking. “The pensioners or Sintram, they can balance one another. This will be a good year.” And so the contract was written, with blood from Gösta’s little finger, on the devil’s black paper and with his quill-pen. And when it was done the pensioners rejoiced. Now the world should belong to them for a whole year, and afterwards there would always be some way.