And then, turning towards me, he began to sing, or rather to try to sing, with a voice quite hoarse, and with a theatrical pose, the following lines out of the opera “The Bride of Lammermoor”—
“Sache donc qu’en ce domaine
D’où me chasse encor ta haine,
En seigneur j’ai commandé.
At least,” he put in, “during the absence of the Baron, for I was heir-presumptive—a presumption which, alas! is destined never to be changed into certitude——”
Francis, visibly affected by his jesting style, interrupted him, and said to me—
“Rudolf von Zwenken, my grandfather’s only son.”
“It would cost my charming niece too great an effort to say ‘My uncle.’ It is my own fault. I have never been able to inspire people with the necessary respect for me. Well, now, Cousin van Zonshoven, you know who I am, but there is one point I must rectify: Rudolf von Zwenken no longer exists—he is civilly dead.”
“And morally,” murmured Francis.
“And if he were to rise again under that name,” he continued, without heeding Francis’s interruption, “he would commit something like suicide, for he would be arrested and shot.”